


For Lack of a Better Word

by pantheon_of_discord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, But with a happy ending, Castiel in the Bunker, Fluff, Freeform, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Castiel, Prompt Fic, WIP with bi-weekly updates, because Cas deserves it, it will be angsty, let's see Cas deal with the nitty-gritty awful parts of humanity as well as the happy ones, this is technically a series of vignettes but linked with an underlying plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 25,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: Castiel falls, and falls, and falls. He comes home to Sam and Dean – he tries to learn, to accept, to adjust – but a former angel will always be out of place.This is humanity, as defined by a fallen angel, and feelings you didn’t know had a name.





	1. Rubatosis

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks! Thanks for stopping by.
> 
> This fic is based on [this post](http://tai-korczak.tumblr.com/post/121552139015/23-emotions-people-feel-but-cant-explain), with words taken from John Koenig's [The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/). 
> 
> All my love and thanks to [Aceriee](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/) and the DAU for the prompt.
> 
> Updates on Sundays and Wednesdays. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rubatosis**   
>  _noun_   
>  _1\. the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat_

****

 

 **Rubatosis:**  
_noun  
__1_. _the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat_

 

The white light dims and vanishes, the piercing cry of static fades, and Castiel’s human heart beats.

It’s the first thing he’s aware of, fully conscious of. For a few minutes, Castiel’s beating heart is the sum total of his focus. It beats. Loudly. Thunderous – blood rushing in his ears. It’s a rapid, deafening tattoo screaming for attention. It’s categorical, it’s undeniable. It’s _unignorable_.

He can feel his heart in his chest, throwing itself against his heaving ribcage. But he can feel it everywhere else too: hammering in is head and throbbing in his limbs.

It’s a pulsing pound, from deep within him, echoing in his skull. And it sounds. . . _dark_. Castiel doesn’t know how a sound can be dark, but somehow it is.

It occurs to him then that his eyes are closed. He pries them open, and slowly his senses – dulled now, so much _less_ now – begin to perceive more details. He’s lying on his front, and something solid and heavy lies across his lower back. The cement floor is hard, and the warehouse is cold and silent. He’s bleeding. Wetness drips down the side of his face, and more yet is dried to his cheek. There is pain, pain of the flesh – an ache that seems to live in every cell of his body.

 _His_ body. For this body is Castiel’s own, now and forever. This pain is his now too, his to bear, and he will heal, but slowly.

And his heart pounds.

One hand forms a fist, then the other, and he brings them underneath himself and strains to roll over. The pressure on his back is rubble, it turns out, and a wide scrap of metal sheeting. Castiel twists against the ground, and it shifts and slides off him with a resounding clatter.

Still winded, he lies on his back, staring through the darkness to the ceiling far above. For a moment, it seems his heart pounds even harder than before, but in time it slows. He counts the beats, he counts the seconds. It’s all he can do right now.

After a while, Castiel realizes he _has_ to count the beats. He’s numbering them in his head and he can’t stop. When he tries, his heart skips and stutters. His breath comes in quick and panicked catches.

 _Beat-beat. Beat-beat. One-two, one-two, one-two_. And his own conscious thought is compelling his heart to pump, to _thump_ – it must be.

He can’t keep doing this forever. But he can’t stop.

He should concentrate on his breathing instead. That’s something humans do, isn’t it? They breathe, counting inhales and exhales to calm themselves. Closing his eyes again, Castiel shifts his focus, forces himself to count his breaths. It works, for a time, his chest rising and falling evenly.

But now he’s counting breaths, not beats. _In-out, in-out._ He pulls in oxygen and pushes out carbon dioxide and he’s just as aware of every rise and fall of his chest as he was the patter against his ribs and he can no more stop this than he could the relentless beating.

Is this how humans live? Is this how they exist, day to day, their minds telling their hearts to beat and their lungs to breathe and how can they ever get anything done when they must always be in command of their heart and their lungs and their minds and the pain in their chests and the blood on their foreheads and –

A shuffling crash sounds from across the warehouse, and for a moment Castiel doesn’t count his breaths and his heartbeats, because his lungs and his heart simply stop.

Then his eyes snap open as his last vestiges of angelic instinct mix with a surge of frighteningly human adrenaline. His heart beats again and his lungs pull in air but Castiel doesn’t notice because he’s out from under the rubble and on his feet. His blade is gone, but his hands find a piece of rebar.

His inferior human eyes peer through the darkness. The white beams of two flashlights skitter back and forth across the warehouse floor, fifty feet away but drawing closer. Castiel flattens his back against a nearby pillar and waits. The rebar is gritty with rust, and it’s making his palms itch. He clenches his fists tighter.

The flashlights draw nearer and nearer, and Castiel is aware of his pulse again but he’s not counting heartbeats, he’s counting footsteps. He breathes slowly, _in-out_ , until a flashlight beam lands across the toe of his shoe.

One final, sharp inhale and he steps forward, makeshift weapon held high.

“Whoa whoa whoa!”

“ _Cas_ , damnit!”

Sam and Dean lower their guns immediately, relief softening their faces.

Castiel remains frozen. “I. . .”

The brothers exchange a quick glance, then Dean steps forward, arms coming up slowly. “Whoa, hey, easy Cas. You okay?”

Castiel doesn’t speak, he can only shake his head.

Nodding, Dean takes another step. “It’s okay, buddy, we got you. S’like a nuke went off in here, though.” His eyes have been trained on Castiel’s face, but then they travel up to his hands. “You good?”

It’s only then Castiel realizes he’s still holding the rebar. It drops instantly, unceremoniously, clanging to the ground and rolling away.

Dean takes three more strides forward and enfolds Castiel in his arms. “Alright, c’mere buddy. You’re okay.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Castiel brings his own shaking hands around to grip Dean back.

Dean keeps murmuring soft, soothing words, but Castiel doesn’t understand them. Once more, all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, and the dark and heavy pounding of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! 
> 
> Check back soon for Part 2/24: 
> 
> **Rückkehrunruhe:**  
>  _1\. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip, only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness_
> 
> I am crossposting on [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) as well. 
> 
> Feel free to come say hi!


	2. Rückkehrunruhe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rückkehrunruhe**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip, only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness_

**Rückkehrunruhe**  
_noun  
_ _1\. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip, only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness_

 

Four days after his fall, Castiel forgets the name of one of his sisters.

It happens when he’s lying on his bed in the bunker, trying (and failing) to fall asleep. Something Sam had said to him earlier reminded Castiel of this sister, whom he had trained and fought beside eons ago. He can still picture her form, her light, her _grace_ , but her name. . . her name is simply gone from him.

For a while he wracks his memory, but after a few fruitless minutes admits defeat. It was so long ago, after all. And he has seen so much since.

An ill feeling begins to creep up within him, but Castiel pushes it away and tries to sleep.

 

//

 

The following week, while reading in the library, it occurs to Castiel that he cannot recall many of his days of battle. In his mind, he knows he spent years defending the walls of Jerusalem. But try as he might, he can only conjure scraps of memories, the most fleeting of images.

A blank sort of emptiness fills his heart, and he stares at the same open page for what must be hours. It’s only when Dean cautiously approaches from the kitchen, with questions about Castiel’s preferences for dinner, that he stands from the table.

 

//

 

Three nights after that, Castiel is wandering the corridors, and he realizes that if this path were the Axis Mundi, and not the cavernous halls of an underground bunker, he could not find his way to The Garden. The routes that he once could fly as easily as thinking are now lost to his recollections. He imagines himself back in heaven, and it is as though he’s been dropped in a foreign land without a map.

No, it isn’t quite that. It’s as though Heaven is a dream.

(Castiel doesn’t have a lot of experience with being human, but already, he is well acquainted with dreams. And nightmares.)

Heaven is a dream to him now, and he recalls its paths as he would recall the passing flashes of a nightmare. Thoughts and memories are _there_ , just on the edges of his mind, but he cannot reach out and grab them. They are present, but intangible. And while in the dream, the roads of Heaven all make perfect sense; there is no real method or design, no hard logic to be applied, but it doesn’t need any of those things. Roads lead where they lead.

But awake now, breathing hard and leaning two palms against the cool stone walls, Heaven is indecipherable. Unknowable.

Castiel is terrified.

A warm hand settles on his back, and Castiel looks up sharply to find Sam’s wide, concerned eyes raking his face.

“Hey, you okay?”

Castiel shakes his head sharply. “Fine,” he says. He shrugs off Sam’s hand and walks down to his bedroom without another word.

 

//

 

The next day, Castiel drives into town and buys plain paper notebooks. He starts to write things down, every piece of information he can recall. History, languages. Spells and ancient sciences. He writes and writes, and for days the only sound he makes is that of a pen scratching against a page. One notebook is filled, then two, and a week later he’s onto his tenth. He goes through whole pens in hours. Occasionally he gets frustrated and tears entire reams of the notebook away. Sometimes he’ll simply stare at a blank page, light blue lines on harsh white, because no matter how he tries, he can’t recall what it was he meant to write in the first place.

Ancient texts and scholarly articles; book after faded book is pulled from the library shelves and dug up from dust-covered boxes, found in storage rooms even Sam didn’t know existed. Castiel copies notes by hand, cheap ink and plastic nib drilling the words into his mind.

Generally, Sam and Dean steer clear of him, but occasionally they’ll ask careful, pointed questions.

“You, uh, you think maybe you wanna stick around after dinner?” Dean is at the kitchen counter, as he so often is these days. Castiel thinks a paring knife suits his hand almost as well as a machete. “Sammy found some poker chips in the back room off the gun range. Pretty sure they’re not cursed or anything. We could teach you how to play.”

“The sixth sphere is for the Just. King David resides there, and many of the other souls form together to create a giant eagle,” Castiel says.

“. . . Okay then.”

Sam usually tries early in the morning. “Hey, I’m heading out for a run. You wanna come? Not that you like, _need_ it or anything, but I dunno, it usually helps me clear my head. And stuff.”

Castiel pulls his bedsheets up higher and doesn’t look up from his notebook. “Linear A _can_ be translated; its roots are simply Anatolian, not Greek.”

“Right, okay,” Sam says, resigned. “Uh, wait. Really?”

Castiel ignores him.

 

//

 

When he’s not in the kitchen for meals, Castiel stays in his bedroom. Dean brought in an empty bookcase to hold all of Castiel’s papers and notebooks, but more often than not they’re in piles on the floor or scattered on the bed. When he’s not writing, Castiel reads them, re-committing every word back into his feeble, _faulty_ human memory.

“Cas?”

Castiel looks up from his notebook, and is somewhat confused to note that Dean is little more than a blurry shape silhouetted in the doorframe. Castiel blinks, and the offending tears fall. When his vision clears, he takes in Dean’s pained expression.

“Was I ever even there?” Castiel whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for Part 3/24 coming next week:
> 
> **Opia:**   
>  _1\. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable_
> 
> Cross-posting on [my tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	3. Opia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Opia**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable_

Almost nothing about being human is like being an angel.

Sensations, emotions, perceptions – there’s a cosmic shift in all of them. Everything must be re-learned and re-analyzed.

But for Castiel, one thing has not changed, not at all. Whatever happens, whatever skin he is in, he knows that the deep stirring he feels as he looks in Dean Winchester’s eyes will always remain.

Castiel supposes that something must have changed, technically. It used to be that he felt the stirring in his grace, in the celestial threads that held him together. Whenever Dean would hold his gaze, whether in anger or despair, defiance or unwavering resolve, a spark would ignite, and electricity would surge through every atom of his being.

Castiel was an angel – almighty, holy; ancient and unknowable. And yet when Dean found his eyes, he was bare and on display. Exposed. Dean learned him in the span of mere weeks, saw the truth of him where no brother and sister ever had. How? How could this human see into him so clearly?

And Dean, who is contradiction and subterfuge, who hides a battered heart behind walls he is constantly building up and tearing down from within – he bared his own soul from the moment they met. His eyes hid nothing, in fact they begged to be seen. Dean wanted, _needed_ to be understood. And Castiel did, in an instant. He still does.

It’s hard to pin down exactly how. Dean’s eyes are average, really. Beautiful, of course, but in the grand scheme of humanity, unremarkable. They are green, like many others. Wide, bright, framed by laughter lines. Castiel has witnessed them turn hard with anger and shiny with tears.

Dean’s eyes have seen so much. A lifetime of horror and tragedy and death, but also joy and family and love. Castiel sees it all, every time their glances catch.

They still do catch, and often. Since his fall, Castiel has been spending his days in his room, writing and trying not to forget. But when he’s not there, his eyes still seek out Dean’s as often as they ever had. But Dean’s eyes hold different things lately. Sorrow, pity, guilt – because of course they do. They seem to search, too, looking for guidance or answers or next steps. Castiel can offer nothing.

What does Dean see, when he looks into Castiel’s eyes? Whether in a gilded room, a parking lot, or across an old wooden table – can Dean see Castiel’s heart in the same way? Is it easier now, now that his eyes are human? Now that he is flesh and blood, not energy and light?

Electricity no longer sparks through his grace. Now, as a human, Castiel feels the stirring in his soul instead. As it turns out, it doesn’t feel any different. The shift still occurs within him, an unsubtle wave of warmth and passion and vulnerability. And terror. This feeling is his one constant, his link between divinity and mundanity.

So perhaps the feeling _was_ in his soul all along. As an angel, Castiel shouldn’t have had a soul, but perhaps their meeting was the catalyst. From the moment Dean first looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and the moment Castiel _really_ looked back, that was the moment his human soul was created. It had been forming and growing, all this time. His life changed irrevocably from the day he met Dean; Castiel could never again be who he was before they came together. Perhaps the circumstances of his fall don’t matter at all, perhaps it was inevitable. Castiel’s soul has been waiting for him from the beginning. Dean found humanity inside him with one look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, friends!
> 
> Part 4/24 coming soon:
> 
> **Anecdoche**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening_
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	4. Anecdoche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anecdoche**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening_

Lately, Sam and Dean seem to stop talking the moment Castiel enters the room. He’ll be pacing the halls, or he’ll approach the library or the kitchen, and he’ll come upon hushed voices that stop abruptly when he draws too near. At first Castiel dismissed the sudden silence, chalking it up to coincidence, but the fourth time it happens he knows it’s intentional. They’re talking about him, but not _to_ him. They’re walking on eggshells.

Castiel can hardly blame them. Over the last month he’s spurned their offers of company and almost entirely kept to himself. He spends his time in his room, reading and writing, and remains mostly silent during meals. Sam and Dean’s attempts to bring him into conversation are more often than not met with flat disinterest, or occasionally outright hostility.

It’s entirely possible they’re all suffering from cabin fever. Sam and Dean haven’t gone out on another hunt since Castiel’s fall; Dean spends the majority of his time in the garage, claiming to be enjoying the ‘vacation,’ but Sam seems to be keeping himself busy by poring over books in the library. On the rare occasions Castiel has enquired after his purpose, Sam turns evasive and leaves the room.

So his friends have taken to talking amongst themselves instead of trying to talk to him. Castiel imagines they’re discussing what to do with a useless fallen angel, and it’s with a bleak kind of acceptance he wonders just how much longer they’re going to put up with him. Being human has hardly made him a good roommate, and certainly not a better friend.

After a week of this, Castiel has resolved to try and broach the subject. He waits until after dinner – spaghetti tonight, made from a recipe Dean claims is ‘secret.’ Sam is surfing his phone and Dean is starting to clear up the table, but instead of disappearing back to the comforting solitude of his room, Castiel remains in his seat, fidgeting with his fork.

“You’ve been talking about me,” Castiel starts. He keeps his eyes down.

There’s a few beats of silence. Clearly, neither of them had expected Castiel to speak.

“When I’m not in the room,” Castiel says, sliding his thumb along the handle of the fork, “you talk about me. You stop whenever you see me.” He finally looks up.

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably, and his right hand comes up to rub at the back of his hair.

Dean, however, looks right at him. He sets his jaw. “Kinda the only option when we can’t talk _to_ you.”

“Dean –” Sam tries, chastising, but Dean ignores him.

“You can talk now. I’m listening now,” Castiel says quietly.

Dean scoffs. “Oh, well it’s nice to have your permission.”

Sam turns around to glare at Dean. “Hey, c’mon.”

“No, he’s right,” Castiel says, and Sam looks back at him again. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

There’s another pause as Sam and Dean lock eyes for an entirely silent conversation. Eventually, as Castiel’s anxiety seems to reach its limit, Sam speaks. “Well, that’s kind of what we’re talking about.”

“That’s what we’re _trying_ to talk about,” Dean says pointedly, narrowing his eyes. “Sam’s got some pretty dumb ideas though.”

“Oh yeah, and you’re the master strategist here, Dean,” Sam says, anger instantly flaring in his voice. “You’re the one with the sensible plan.”

Dean takes a step forward, eyes still zeroed in on Sam. “Screw sensible, what has _sensible_ ever gotten us? My plan’ll work, Sam. Yours will get one or all of us dead.”

This conversation has not at all gone in the direction Castiel was expecting. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

Sam and Dean turn to him, blinking in surprise. They both seem to have forgotten he was there.

“We’re talking about getting you back, Cas,” Sam says, as though this was obvious. “About getting your grace back.”

Castiel blinks, but he can’t speak.

“Yeah, and Sam wants to try some freakin’ spell out of a book so nasty _Rowena_ wouldn’t touch it, and I’m telling him that’s fucking _nuts_.”

Sam stands from the table and plants his hands on his hips. “And _Dean_ wants to go in guns blazing and torture it out of some angel, like that’s _ever_ worked for us before.”

“I chose this.”

“That’s the _only_ thing that’s ever worked for us before, Sam. Ever! Name me one time one of these magic tricks has ever gotten us what we wanted.”

“Uh, how about any one of a dozen hunts over the last decade and a half?” Sam all but yells. “How about getting rid of the Mark?”

“Oh yeah, that turned out well.”

Castiel clears his throat and tries again. “I said I chose this, Dean.”

Sam drags a hand down his face. “Dean, we’re in no shape to go in against Heaven right now. We’re a fighter down –” he gestures to Castiel without looking at him “– and we got no clue how to get a hold of an angel who can help.”

Pacing now, Dean waves an impatient hand. “Shit hits the fan, we do what we know, Sammy. We get us an angel, doesn’t matter who, and we figure it out.”

“The book lays it all out, Dean, we can do it the right way, the _safe_ way this time. Why risk it?”

They keep fighting, shouting over one another, debating plans that Castiel can take no part in. Both of them are digging their heels in, stubborn as only Winchesters can be, but it turns out that it doesn’t matter in the least. All this time, all these weeks, and neither of them have been paying any attention.

“ _Stop,_ ” Castiel shouts. “I said – just _listen_.”

Silence falls instantly. Both Sam and Dean turn to Castiel in frozen surprise. Again, they seem to have forgotten him.

“I don’t want this,” Castiel says.

Dean stares. “Hey, we’re tryin’ to help, here. We want to fix this. You’re not happy, Cas.”

“No, but –” Castiel breaks off, lost. Adrift. “Sam, Dean. Listen to me. I _chose_ this.”

“You chose this.” Sam turns to Dean, unsure. “You want –”

“I _chose_ this,” Castiel cuts in, more to himself than either of the others.

Dean takes a step forward. “You want this. This whole hiding in your room, ignoring us, wasting away, crappy human life.”

Tears prick at the corners of Castiel’s eyes, and he sways a little on his feet. “I _chose_ this,” he repeats. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince.

“Cas –”

The fork drops to the table with a clatter, and Castiel leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Thanks for reading! I love all of you thhiiiiiiisssss much.
> 
> Part 5/24 coming next week!  
>  **Kenopsia**  
>  _1\. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet_
> 
> Please feel free to come say hi on [tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	5. Kenopsia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Kenopsia**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet_

It used to be that Castiel loved the bunker at night. Before, when he was still an angel (and on the rare occasions he spent the night), he would wander the quiet halls or sit up in the library. The steady ticking of the clock in the war room and the hum of the refrigerator were welcome and comforting sounds, reminders of the precious souls that worked and breathed and lived within the bunker’s walls. And in some small way, it was as though Castiel was keeping watch, standing guard over his human charges. His family. He would walk past their bedroom doors and hear soft sounds and gentle snores and he would know that all was well.

Since he fell, nights in the bunker have stopped being a comfort; for reasons Castiel can’t identify, the building unnerves him. When it’s late, the only place he can find any kind of solace is his own bedroom. It’s isolating, yes, lonesome even. But the walls don’t feel so close and the air doesn’t seem so. . . _dead_.

Castiel likes the car though. He always has, despite his grumblings about wings and cramped spaces and the dullness of driving. But the Impala is different, somehow separate from all of that. She’s a part of the family, as much as anyone. She’s a wife and a mother and a protector; she’s safety and she’s home.

And now, traveling down the 160 with the radio playing softly and Sam and Dean bickering in the front seat, Castiel feels more calm and at peace than he has in weeks.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel blinks and looks forward. Dean’s turned around in the front seat, looking at him expectantly. It’s with some surprise that Castiel notes they’re parked; he’s apparently been staring off into space.

“Chow time, you comin’ in?” Dean says, then starts climbing out of the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, right,” Castiel says, peering through the windshield at the dingy-looking Burger King. Its harsh, glowing sign lights up the empty parking lot, and when Castiel steps out of the car after Dean, he notes that the road behind them is completely deserted too. It must be very late. “Where are we?”

“Kayenta. Still a couple hours out,” Dean says over his shoulder.

By the time Castiel steps through the door, Sam and Dean are already standing at the front counter, necks craned up to read the menu. Castiel doesn’t follow though, he stays just inside the entrance, caught off-guard by the unease that instantly crawls up his spine.

It takes him time to identify what’s wrong. This restaurant is identical to dozens of others he’s been in over the years; rows of orange laminate booths line the wall beneath the front windows, and there are formica tables and molded plastic chairs in the centre of the room, once white but now faded to yellow and grimy with dust. The rust-brown tile floor is old and cracked, and clearly hasn’t seen a mop in weeks – probably longer. Castiel glances up at the large, curved mirror by the ceiling to find his own reflection looking back, slightly warped and sickly green in the fluorescent light.

Save the three of them and the pimply-faced teenaged boy at the counter, the restaurant is empty, but there’s a strange non-silence that blankets the room. No one’s speaking, but the lights buzz, the air conditioner in the window rattles, and the shuffling sounds of feet are swallowed up in the air, thick and heavy with old grease.

Castiel registers all these details, catalogues them, and knows that nothing is suspicious or truly out of the ordinary. But he also knows that the space is just. . . _wrong_. There’s no other word for it. It’s _off_. It’s too empty, and simultaneously too full – too full of _something_.

Finally, Castiel realizes. It’s full of the people that aren’t here. It’s haunted.

This dingy little restaurant is full of ghosts, but they’re ghosts of a different sort. They cannot be fought with salt or iron – in fact they cannot be fought at all. These ghosts exist as imprints, seen only in a crumpled napkin or an old ball cap, forgotten in a dusty corner.

It all hits him then, in one moment: the knowledge of the thousands of people that have drifted through this place, an old Burger King in Arizona, and the traces of themselves they’ve left behind. Then the lights and the sound and the space and the emptiness and the _fullness_ all crash together in one overwhelming wave and Castiel feels it all wash over him –

“Cas, whaddyou want?”

Again, Castiel startles. Up at the counter, both Sam and Dean are staring at him, waiting, and somehow completely unbothered by the wrongness of the room.

“I. . . it doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, taking a step backwards towards the door. “Whatever you’re getting.”

He turns his back on his friends and stumbles outside to lean against the wall. The brick is rough against his back but the air is soothingly cool, so he stares around the parking lot and waits for his equilibrium to return.

The empty parking lot. The empty road, stretching out in front of him, that should hold cars and people and _life_ , but is just as void as the restaurant was. More buzzing catches Castiel’s attention, and his eyes travel up to a faded orange streetlamp. The electricity hums and a cluster of moths bump against the bulb, the tapping much louder to Castiel’s ears than it should be from this distance.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s staggering over to the car and climbing inside again. He leans back against the smooth vinyl seats, closes his eyes, and waits for Sam and Dean to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading folks! You're all awesome.
> 
> Part 6/24 coming up:  
>  **Vemödalen**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist_
> 
> And as always, here's [my tumblr,](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) for friend-making purposes.


	6. Vemödalen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Vemödalen**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist_

The sun is already out full-force, but it’s early enough that the air is still comfortably cool. Several dozen tourists are already here, apparently having shared Dean’s desire to avoid the sweltering heat of the afternoon. It’s perfect right now though, and Castiel briefly closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth hitting the side of his face.

He feels Dean move up beside him, then softly nudge his shoulder. “You’re missing it, Cas.”

Smiling, Castiel opens his eyes again.

There’s a reason this place is so popular, so beloved: the view is spectacular. Reds and golds glow in infinite shades, and there’s more green than Castiel had expected. The canyon walls are streaked with layers and stripes – brushstrokes across a vast canvas. And it seems to go on forever, extending out farther than Castiel can hope to see. He leans forwards against the guard rail and looks down, but he can’t make out the bottom past the jutting rock.

“Hey, tell him about that time with dad,” Sam says from his other side.

“That’s not a good story, Sam.”

“That’s a _great_ story. You and your stinky _ass_.”

Castiel quirks his lips in a smile and turns to Dean, bemused. “Your what?”

“It was my _mule_ , Sam,” Dean says, glaring at his brother before looking at Castiel. “A real ass. A donkey. Not _my_. . .” He trails off, his face going curiously red for a moment before he moves a few paces away, seemingly admiring the view.

Sam snorts but doesn’t push any further, and a moment later he wanders a little ways down the path in the other direction.

Castiel stays put, his fingers fiddling with the worn leather bag in his hands for a moment before pulling out the old film camera.

Shortly after announcing his plan for a ‘family road trip,’ a few days earlier, Dean had appeared at Castiel’s bedroom door with the camera clutched tight in his hands. He had apparently found it in one of the bunker’s bedrooms when they’d moved in five years earlier, and _just thought you should have it, I dunno_. It’s probably at least sixty years old, the casing is worn down in several places, gone shiny and smooth, but somehow it still seems to work.

Castiel brings the camera up to his eye and starts taking photos of every inch of the canyon. He presses himself against the rail again, leaning out as far as he can. Wrapping the cord around his wrist, he holds the camera out at arm’s length and points it downwards, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bottom.

The shutter clicks, again and again, and Castiel knows he’ll be running out of film soon but there is so much to see, so much to capture. He thinks he understands now, why so many humans have come here over the centuries, how so many have been inspired and floored and enraptured. Hael, his sister who built this place so long ago, she created such a wonder.

Castiel pauses, slowly lowering the camera from his eye.

The Grand Canyon, the pinnacle of Earth’s natural wonders, was created by his sister. A being just like him, made of light and grace and pure intent, built everything here, with a mere thought.

Castiel once had power like that. He wielded cosmic energy and divine wroth. He sang the Trisagion and guarded the Heavenly throne. Castiel aligned stars.

Now he takes photographs.

Movement to his right catches Castiel’s eye. A young woman has stepped up beside him, awkwardly trying to aim her own camera.

“Sorry,” Castiel says automatically, and steps out of her way.

“Thanks,” she says, flashing a small smile, then starts taking her pictures.

Castiel looks left, then right. All along the path are people with cameras, with cell phones, clicking and snapping away, taking the same little pieces of this miraculous creation. Each of them will return home with fifty images, each one slightly different from the last, but identical to the millions or _billions_ that have been taken before. These people are smiling and laughing and taking ‘selfies,’ only the very latest in a long, long line.

And now, Castiel is no different. He is a human, like any other. He is neither special nor original. He is nothing _new_ , merely a witness to all the wonder that his siblings have wrought – and a witness like billions of others. One day, his time will end, and he will have impacted nothing.

There’s movement to his right again, but it’s Dean this time. “S’it working okay? I was pretty sure I found the right kinda film.”

Castiel looks down at the camera. “Yes, it’s working.”

“Good,” Dean says. “You get some good shots?”

Shrugging, Castiel starts to stuff the camera back into its case. “Maybe. But if not, I’m sure we can find others.” He gestures half-heartedly to the crowds along the lookout.

Dean frowns. “Well yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“The point?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding out towards the view. “You gotta have some that are _yours_.”

Castiel sighs. “What difference does it make?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it abruptly, pursing his lips. His face turns pink again, but eventually he speaks. “Why d’you think I gave that to you?”

“I have no idea, actually,” Castiel says.

A huff of laughter leaves Dean’s chest, but then he turns sombre, his toe digging into the dirt. “You’re forgetting stuff.”

Castiel drops his eyes and his stomach twists painfully, but he doesn’t respond.

“You are,” Dean continues. “Because humans are dumb and we can’t handle all the stuff your angel brain could. It’s why you’ve been writing so much. You’re trying not to forget.”

“Yes,” Castiel says quietly, then finds Dean’s eyes again.

Dean nods once, a solemn confirmation. “Yeah. So, I dunno, I thought the camera might help. I mean, I don’t know how the memory works, I don’t know if it’s actually gonna, y’know. But I thought. . .” He’s gone red again. “You can take pictures of the stuff you don’t wanna lose.”

Castiel looks at Dean, hard, as warmth and an overwhelming sense of wonder swell in his chest. Then he smiles softly, and brings the camera back up to his eye.

He frames Dean in the viewfinder, and clicks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friends! And for everyone leaving comments; I love you all, your words mean so much to me. <3
> 
> Part 7/24 next week:  
>  **Vellichor**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the strange wistfulness of used bookshops_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	7. Vellichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Vellichor**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the strange wistfulness of used bookshops_

The Men of Letters were named as such for a reason.

Their library is impressive, and it extends far beyond the confines of the main room. In corridors leading off from the back of the library, there are store rooms upon store rooms, all filled to the brim with books. There are dusty tomes and faded scrolls; there is parchment and papyrus. Over the past few weeks, Castiel has become quite familiar with all of these rooms, as well as their contents. But it’s only now he’s really started to appreciate the rooms for what they _are_ , as opposed to what they hold.

The library, the storage rooms, the bunker itself, it all holds history. And not just in the contents of the books, but in the books themselves. Some are ancient – at least by human standards. In the preceding weeks, Castiel hadn’t paid any mind to the books and papers themselves. They were merely vehicles for the words he needed to write, to ingrain into his memory, and he was heedless of Sam’s meticulous filing system as he tore them from the shelves. But looking at them now, as he returns a towering stack of books to their proper places, he takes in all the details. How they _smell_ : musty and dry, but at the same time not at all unpleasant. The sounds; the delicate whisper of a turning page or the satisfying thud of a closing cover. The contrast of the old paper against the pads of his fingers, textured and thick, with the soft and supple feel of a leather spine.

Castiel runs a hand over one now, and thinks of all the fingers, all the humans that have touched this book, and every other book in this library. There are traces of thousands – of hundreds of thousands – of people in every turning page. He thinks of the histories left behind in old, dusty volumes, of the lives that only exist now in ink. And of the ones lost to all memory.

Of course it’s unlikely he’ll ever know for sure, but Castiel thinks he’s forgotten all he’s going to forget. The creeping dread at the back of his mind seems to have faded, leaving a blank sort of hollowness in its wake. Castiel still remembers a great deal of his life as an angel, but he knows that he’s lost as much as he’s kept. Probably more. What remains of his old life exists in his fallible, human memory, and in his many notebooks, haphazardly organized on the bookcase in his bedroom.

Since their trip to the Grand Canyon, Castiel has stopped writing as much, stopped sequestering himself in his bedroom – a combination of the slowing of his memory loss, as well as his desire to properly reconnect with Sam and Dean. This new life is what it is, and Castiel will do what he can to live it.

“Hey.”

Castiel looks over to find Sam stepping up into the room, carrying a few books of his own.

“I’m attempting to re-organize everything for you,” Castiel says. “I’ve been a bit. . . indelicate with your system over the last month.”

Sam cracks a smile. “Yeah well, at least you’re puttin’ it all back. Try and catch Dean doing that.” He stops a few feet away, then clears his throat. “Got something for you.”

Curious, Castiel sets down the index card he’d been reading, and Sam hands him one of the books. It’s new, the cover done in smooth black leather and the metal clasp still shiny. When he opens it, Castiel discovers it’s full of blank lined paper.

“A notebook.” Castiel tilts his head. “I do already have a lot of these, you know. However, the ones I’ve been using are far more. . . utilitarian. You didn’t need to go to the trouble.”

“Yeah, I know you’ve got all your other ones. This one’s different though. Or, I dunno, it can be, if you want.” Finally, Sam holds up the other book.

If Castiel had been paying any attention before, he would have recognized it instantly. “Your father’s journal.”

Sam smiles. “Yeah. You know what’s in here, you’ve used it before. Every hunt, every bit of nasty Dad ever came across. But you know, it was more than that to him.”

Still holding the journal, Sam sits down on the edge of the long table and starts flipping through the pages. “There’s stuff in here – his life, _our_ lives – who we all were outside of hunting. He. . . he wrote down my first steps. First time Dean ever fired a gun.” His expression darkens for a moment. “Wasn’t that far apart, really, those two days.”

“He wanted to remember it all.” Castiel nods slowly, trying to understand. “I’m not losing any of my new memories, Sam. I don’t think I’m at risk of that – at least not for a few more decades. If I live that long.”

“Well yeah, he wanted to remember, but it wasn’t just that,” Sam says. “Writing stuff down, it’s how he made sense of everything. It’s how we all do, I guess – everybody. It’s one of the ways humans cope. Even if we’re not, y’know,” he gestures at Castiel “undergoing weird, angel memory loss stuff. We try to make order out of chaos.”

“So, you think I should keep writing,” Castiel says.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, I do. But, I dunno, write different. Write. . . _less_. How many of those notebooks have you filled now, a couple dozen? I think at this point you’ve probably written your way through an entire rainforest.”

Castiel feels himself blush, so Sam puts up his hands in surrender.

“Just. . . instead of detailing down every exact thing that happened, write down _why_ it happened, or how it made you feel. Don’t put down the facts. Put down the moments.”

“The moments,” Castiel repeats.

“Yeah, moments,” Sam says, getting up from the table and giving Castiel a light smack on the arm. “You’ll know ‘em when you have ‘em.”

He smiles a final time, then heads back off towards the war room.

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel finally thinks to call out after him.

Sam turns, just at the edge of the kitchen hallway. “Any time, Cas.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Castiel looks back to the rows of shelves.

Sam was right; this is how humans survive, how they’ve always survived. History and science and even fiction – they write so they can make sense of their existence. They order and categorize and catalogue the world around them, and they write it down so it can be passed on.

That is perhaps the most wonderous part, Castiel thinks. This innate desire that humans have to learn and to know, the endless curiosity that fuels the lives of so many of them. It is an intrinsic piece of humanity. And there’s creativity and ingenuity too, not just in the millions of stories from history’s millions of writers, but in the very idea of books. It’s remarkable.

In all of Castiel’s anger and pain, his lamenting the past that he’s lost, he’s forgotten how much he has always loved humanity. He has become that which he admires so deeply.

Smiling softly, Castiel looks down at the journal.

His hands grip the smooth new leather, and his fingers itch to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said each chapter should be under 1k? Lol.  
> I love everybody in this bar.  
> Part 8/24 coming up:  
>  **Adronitis**  
>  noun  
>  _frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	8. Adronitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Adronitis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone_

“Move your feet.”

“They’re _moving_ , Dean.”

“Well, move ‘em faster.”

Castiel grins. He flexes his bare toes, feels the slight give of the old training mat beneath his feet.

Dean grins back, mischievous, and brings his fists up again. 

Dean is beautiful when he fights. His eyes turn bright, focused. A fine sheen of sweat lingers on his face, down his neck, and on his collarbone, partially exposed beneath his loose t-shirt. And the way he moves – his torso twists and rolls with every punch, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders flex, solid and powerful. Every strike and parry is precise, controlled, practised. No, more than practised, it’s ingrained. It’s instinct, second nature developed over a lifetime. It isn’t graceful, exactly, but it’s. . . _athletic_.

Castiel is having a difficult time concentrating.

A blow from Dean’s left fist very nearly lands, and he chuckles. “Look alive, Cas.”

“I know how to fight, Dean, you’ve seen me.”

“You know how to fight as an angel,” Dean says, breathing a bit laboured, “but if we’re gonna get back out there, you need to know how to fight like a human.”

Dean twists, his leg coming up in a kick, but Castiel blocks it. “I think I’ll manage,” he says dryly. “I was a soldier long before your ancestors crawled out of the sea.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you’re gettin’ old.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, and then he strikes. He ducks around another punch and at the same time sweeps out with his leg. Dean is caught off guard and he drops to the mat, flat on his back.

“You were saying?” Castiel says, smirking.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean hisses, his eyes squeezed shut in pain.

Castiel’s heart drops. “Are you alright? I’m sorry.” Concerned, he steps up closer and leans down.

In an instant, Dean moves, scissoring out with both legs. Castiel’s feet go out from under him, and the next thing he knows he’s the one on his back, with Dean hovering over him and grinning cheekily. “Gotcha.”

Suddenly, Castiel’s heart is racing with more than exertion. Dean has one knee on either side of his hips, and his hands encircle Castiel’s wrists.

Castiel is thoroughly pinned, defenseless, and Dean is _inches_ away.

Swallowing, Castiel tries to regain some control, even as he feels the blood from his head rushing decidedly south. “That was cheating.”

Dean winks. “First lesson of fighting like a human. We play _dirty_.”

Castiel has to bite back a moan. Their hips are pressed together, close enough that he can feel every minute movement Dean makes. Castiel holds his eyes, taking in the thin ring of green around shiny black. Both their chests are heaving, and Dean’s loose, slightly sweaty shirt hangs down against Castiel’s stomach. Slowly, Dean inches a fraction closer, still smirking.

It feels as though they’re teetering on the edge of something – something that’s been building from the very beginning. Over the years, they’ve always seemed to pull themselves back, but for the first time, Castiel finds himself leaning over.

Heart pounding, Castiel drops his gaze down to Dean’s lips. “I suppose I’ve learned my lesson. Now, would you like to keep. . . sparring?” Then he shifts his hips – it’s subtle, but deliberate.

But it’s the wrong move. Dean’s expression shutters off completely, and he releases Castiel’s wrists and pulls away.

He’s on his feet and heading for the door before Castiel can react. “No. I’m done for today.” He sounds almost angry.

Castiel leans up on his elbows. “I –” He starts to apologize, but he’s cut off by the slam of the gymnasium door.

For a while Castiel stays frozen on the floor, still reeling. Then he drops his head back down and brings shaking hands up to cover his face.

Even after all this time, and all Castiel thinks he understands, there are moments when Dean is still unknowable.

Castiel _gets_ Dean, he does, down to his core. He understands him.

And yet, he doesn’t at all.

Taking deep, shaking breaths, Castiel tries to calm his racing heart, tries to push past the devastation of Dean’s rejection. Because that’s what it was. After _years_ of this, Castiel made his move, and as he’d always feared, he was shut down.

This wasn’t the first time they’d trained together; Castiel’s been practising for a week or so now, with both Dean and Sam, getting ready to start hunting again. Training with Sam is useful, and relatively enjoyable. But training with Dean. . . it’s exciting. It’s _fun_. Or it was.

In his mind, Castiel replays the last half hour. Dean’s invitation, his instructions, his _flirtation_. After a few moments, the devastation makes way for frustration. Castiel knows he isn’t alone in this, he knows Dean feels it too. When he was an angel, Castiel could quite literally see into Dean – all his dreams and hopes, all his faults and anxieties. Castiel could see what he feared. And what he loved. _Who_ he loved.

But no longer; Castiel lost that sense along with his grace. Now, it’s as though he’s moving half-blind.

Things haven’t changed for Dean, they couldn’t have. If anything, since Castiel became human Dean’s been pushing more, pushing things farther. And Castiel’s been pushing farther too. Hands have lingered on shoulders, eyes have stayed locked for longer than was necessary – even for the two of them.

Castiel and Dean have always made their advances, their thrusts, but recently they’ve stopped parrying. More and more now, they’ve been letting their hits land. But apparently this was one hit too many, and who knows when or even _if_ they’ll regain their balance.

Perhaps foolishly, Castiel thought that falling might finally make it possible for them. For years he and Dean had been in a kind of holding pattern, but now instead of moving forward, it’s like humanity has hit Castiel’s reset button, and suddenly he’s playing by a different set of rules. Everything must be re-learned, re-evaluated. Feelings, interactions; everything is more complicated.

It shouldn’t be that way. It should all be easier now. It was _supposed_ to be easier.

But as Castiel finally heaves himself up off the mat, he realizes that no matter what he thinks he knows, he doesn’t truly understand anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, every sparring scene I will ever write _ever_ , is an homage to Put Up Your Dukes.
> 
> Part 9 next week!  
>  **Exulansis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it_
> 
> As always, [my tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	9. Exulansis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Exulansis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it_

When it was the three of them driving together, Castiel used to sit dead centre in the back seat of the Impala. He liked looking out the front window, especially when the roads were straight and free of other traffic. The rest of the car’s interior melted away, leaving only the sight of trees and houses and streetlights whipping by, and the smooth blacktop rushing beneath him.

If Castiel kept is focus narrow, it almost felt like flying.

He did this even after he lost his wings, because there was always some small part of him that believed one day he’d get them back.

Now, he sits behind the driver’s seat. It’s harder for Dean to look at him this way, although Castiel still catches him flicking wary green eyes up to the rearview mirror every minute or so.

Castiel looks at the back of the front seat sometimes, but more often than not he keeps his eyes shut tight, too grief-stricken to face what it is that he’s lost. He tells Sam it’s to avoid feeling carsick.

 

//

 

Sam looks up from the old text, puzzled. “I don’t get it. Why is that funny?”

“Because it’s _Zachariah_ ,” Castiel says, unable to keep the smirk from his face.

Dean glances at Sam across the spindly motel table, then turns back to Castiel. “I still don’t get it.”

“That passage of text, it’s referring to Zachariah.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly.

Castiel looks back and forth between the two of them, waiting for the pieces to click together.

After a moment, Dean crosses his arms. “And why are we laughing about Sergeant General Assclown _Zachariah_? The guy who would’ve happily sold me to Michael for a Twinkie?”

It takes another few seconds for Castiel to realize his mistake. “Right. Uh, I suppose it’s only funny if you know that one of Zachariah’s heads was that of an ox.”

Unsurprisingly, Castiel is once again met with blank stares.

“One of his. . . heads?” Sam says.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “He had four.”

Dean gapes. “He said that once, I remember. I thought it was just a good old angel-style dick-measuring contest.”

Embarrassingly, Castiel finds himself blushing. He glances down at the motel’s hideous floral bedspread and tries to ignore it. “Well, in a way, it was.”

“So wait –” Dean’s eyes are bugging wide, and his mouth falls open again.

Sam is staring at him too, and Castiel’s heart sinks. He can guess what’s coming next.

“So did you, y’know,” Dean eventually starts, “when you were an angel, size of the Chrysler Building and all that. . . did you have four heads too?”

Castiel looks at him a moment, then over at Sam. Their expressions fall somewhere between awkward and fascinated.

“No,” he lies.

 

//

 

The crime scene is a mess. Dean digs one disgusted toe through a pile of partially-stripped bones on the carpet. “So we were wrong. Rugaru.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, grimacing. “And he’s fed already. No comin’ back.”

“Unlucky bastard,” Dean says, then straightens up. “Alright, you two talk to the guys at the bar again, see if anybody knows where he could be hiding out.”

Sam nods. “We left our flamethrowers back home.”

“Right. There’s a hardware store down the block, I’ll run down there and gear up. Let’s track this sucker down and get roastin,’ Dean says.

Castiel follows Sam out to the car, but stays silent.

Before he can climb in, however, Sam throws out a hand. “Hey, you good?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says, not meeting his eyes.

“’Kay,” Sam says. “Just, you know, first case back. Wanted to make sure.”

Castiel musters up a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Sam smiles back, reassuring. “As long as you’re good.” He starts moving away.

“It’s just – he was human.”

Slowly, Sam turns around again. “Yeah, he was.” His voice is sympathetic, and his eyes are rather sad.

“This isn’t his fault,” Castiel says. “He turned, he changed, and he can’t help the things he’s doing now. To go through that, to wake up one morning as something _else_ –”

“It’s not the same, Cas. It’s not the same and you know it,” Sam says. After a few seconds his shoulders drop. “He’s killed people, Cas.”

Castiel almost laughs. “And I haven’t?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just slides into the front seat and slams the door.

 

//

 

“Alright, pay attention.”

Castiel struggles to adjust his grip without the pile of tools in his arms spilling out.

Dean reaches for a wrench. There’s engine grease on his cheek. “Older cars are easier to boost and harder to track. But half the time they’re busted or breaking down, so it’s worth knowing some of the basics. C’mon, get in here.”

Castiel watches, listens, as Dean teaches him about spark plugs and break pads, about oil changes and carburetors. By the end of the afternoon, he manages to replace the Impala’s battery – under Dean’s _very_ watchful eye.

“See?” Dean wipes his hands down on an old rag, then passes it over for Castiel. “One more human-y thing, checked off the ‘to learn’ list.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Castiel’s smile is brief.

Frowning, Dean leans back against the bumper. “Look, I know it’s different this time, but you’ve done the human thing before, there’s a whole ton of times you’ve been powered down. You’ll figure it out.”

Castiel looks at him a moment, but the words don’t come. They just sit on his tongue in a jumbled pile.

Finally, his eyes land on the car. “You’re right, it’s different this time.”

Dean stays silent, waiting.

“Before. . . before, when I was human, or sick, or I didn’t have my powers, it was like I was out of gas.” Castiel swallows. “Now, the whole tank’s been removed.”

Eventually he looks up again. Dean’s staring back at him, eyes roving Castiel’s face, like he’s looking for something, but he still doesn’t seem to be able to speak.

Castiel smiles sadly. “So that’s it. No gas tank. And a crack in my chassis,” he adds bitterly.

“What?” Dean asks, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Nothing.” Castiel shakes his head, then starts heading for the garage door. “Thank you for teaching me today.”

He’s almost at the door when Dean finally finds his voice. “Hey, Cas, look.” Castiel turns around, and Dean swallows visibly. “I might not _get_ _it_ , but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Castiel’s heart seizes a few times, but he merely nods once before walking out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya, I'm super behind on replying to comments but I'll get to y'all, I promise! In the meantime, I LOVE YOU ALL.
> 
> Part 10:  
>  **Monachopsis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr,](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) friends.


	10. Monachopsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Monachopsis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place_

Castiel gets the door while Dean helps Sam hobble into the room. They’re all hoping it’s just a sprain, but Castiel could swear he heard a rather sickening crack as the werewolf tackled Sam to the ground.

“Alright, easy,” Dean says, lowering Sam onto one of the beds.

Castiel sets his duffle down on the table. “I’ll go down to the ice machine,” he says, but Dean waves him off.

“I got it. Foot up, Sam.” He leaves the room, barely sparing Castiel a glance.

“Yeah,” Sam says around a wince, struggling to bring his swelling ankle up onto the bed.

Castiel steps up to help, supporting Sam’s back as he readjusts. “I really am sorry, Sam.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Sam says. “These things happen.”

“Still, that werewolf should never have gotten past me. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”

Sam shakes his head a little. “I’m okay Cas, really. It’s gonna take us a bit of time to find our rhythm, that’s all.”

Before Castiel can say any more, Dean returns with a bucket and sets it beside Sam on the bed. “Here, tough guy.” He moves around Castiel, standing helplessly in the centre of the room, and reaches down into his own duffle to retrieve a bottle of cheap whiskey. “And one shot of medicine, comin’ up.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, taking the bottle and swallowing a portion. “Lemme look at your arm.”

“S’not bad,” Dean says, but sits down opposite Sam and holds out his arm obligingly. “No stitches.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam dumps some whiskey on the cut, then starts wiping at the blood.

The way they do this is so practised, so routine. Castiel shuffles his feat awkwardly. “Can I do anything?”

Dean looks up at him. He might be imagining it, but Castiel thinks his eyes soften a bit. “Nah, we got it. What about you, looked like Teen Wolf got you pretty good.”

It’s true; Castiel’s shirt is torn across his middle and rather soaked in blood. Sitting in the car on the way back had been agony. “It looks worse than it is, I’ll handle it.”

“Alright,” Dean says, a little reluctantly. “We head out first thing.”

Castiel nods, then grabs his duffle again and leaves for his own room. Once inside, he leans back against the inside of the door.

He’d never truly understood the meaning of ‘third wheel’ until now.

Returning to hunting has been a rough adjustment. For the first time since he’s known Sam and Dean, Castiel feels a step behind. His time in training the last few weeks means his fighting skills are still solid, and despite the loss of his memories he’s still smarter than the two of them combined. But on a hunt he’s consistently in the wrong place, asking the wrong questions, drawing the wrong conclusions.

Sam and Dean are a unit, they always have been, but when he was an angel Castiel never felt like an intruder. He was their third piece, a complement. As a human, he feels like a tag-along, a burden. The spare part they don’t know what to do with. And he has no idea why.

Sighing, Castiel moves away from the door and starts carefully peeling the jacket and shirt from his body. He throws them and his bag onto the single bed, then starts pulling out his own supply of disinfectant and bandages. Unlike Sam and Dean, he prefers antiseptic to the sharp sting of whiskey.

Once in front of the mirror, he wets a washcloth and starts gingerly rubbing away the worst of the blood. The claw marks aren’t terribly deep, but his stomach is a mess of scratches and frayed skin. He inhales sharply as he passes a peroxide-soaked square of cotton across the wound, and wonders idly if it will scar.

This sensation is one of many Castiel is still struggling to adjust to. Human pain is different than what he felt as an angel. It’s sharper, somehow, more. . . direct. And of course, it takes time to heal, far more than he’s used to.

He tapes down the bandage, then looks up to check it in the mirror. Dean probably would have done a better job of it, but it’ll do. He’s about to turn away, but then he stops and just looks for a moment.

There are bags beneath his eyes – as there usually are – and his cheeks and chin are rough with stubble. There’s a bandage on his stomach, there are bruises on his chest and arms, and if he looks hard enough he can see the slight flicker of his pulse in his neck.

 _His_ stomach, _his_ chest. He says this word, he calls this body his own, but even after all this time, there’s a disconnect he can’t ignore.

It’s frustrating; all of this should be completely normal now, Castiel has looked this way for nearly a decade. In all these years, he’s never looked in the mirror and seen a stranger. And it’s been a long, long time since he’s thought of this body as Jimmy Novak’s. But still, he feels the pain from the werewolf’s claws, he sees the cuts to his skin, and he is somehow surprised that he’s injured.

In this – in his human body and his new, human life – he simply doesn’t fit. Sometimes he feels too big for it, and sometimes far too small. He’s shifted out of phase with the rest of the world, affecting his life every now and then by reaching across a dimension to tug on a string.

Sighing, he reaches down to the counter below the mirror and slips on a clean shirt. The cotton is loose, but it still catches on the gauze and tape.

This change of _being_ , he isn’t built for it. _Angels_ weren’t built for it.

In his darker moments, Castiel wonders whether he’s made a mistake.

But the bitter realization always comes; he makes for a disappointing human, but he was never a good angel either. He always sat apart from his brothers and sisters – always an outlier.

He was an outcast as an angel, and now he’s an outcast as a human too.

As he stares back into his reflection, Castiel thinks that maybe it’s just him. Maybe he isn’t meant to fit in anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are great. :D
> 
> Part 11 next week!
> 
>  **Liberosis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the desire to care less about things_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	11. Liberosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Liberosis**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the desire to care less about things_

Castiel is drunk.

It started with a single tumbler that Dean pushed into his hand. _Beer ain’t gonna cut it on a day like this_ , he’d said, and Castiel had to agree.

Dean and Sam both left the kitchen after a while, presumably heading to bed, but Castiel stayed behind. Dean had thoughtfully left the whiskey bottle on the table.

Dean could be very thoughtful sometimes.

One glass became two, then three, but now the bottle is empty. That’s to be expected; it was only half-full to begin with.

Dean could be an inconsiderate _jackass_ sometimes.

Castiel drains the last drops from his glass, and then slams it down onto the table rather hard. For emphasis, he tells himself. The movement sends his whole body reeling, and for a while he just sort of bobbles his head, waiting for the spinning to stop.

It does, in time, but it brings the kind of sobering stillness Castiel had been trying to avoid when he took his first swig. He’s finally beginning to understand why this has always been Dean’s preferred method of coping with the horrors of the job. And of a human life. And the things Castiel has lost and all the things he can’t change and the truth of his mortality and all the _innocent_ lives lost – and it is now abundantly clear that three glasses isn’t nearly enough.

Slowly, Castiel stands from the table, bracing himself with both hands as he tries to keep his balance. He heads for the cabinets, but as he rounds the end of the table he slams his thigh into the corner. This level of inebriation has apparently confused his depth perception. Absently, he registers the pain, and notes that he’ll probably have a bruise tomorrow, but right now his desire for more alcohol outweighs any discomfort.

Most of the bunker’s liquor supply is in the library, but fortunately Castiel spots a slightly dusty bottle of bourbon on one of the bottom shelves by the kitchen island. He bends down to grab it but then inexplicably, he keeps going, all the way down to the floor until he’s crumpled on his knees with his head swimming again. Evidently, his balance is more out-of-whack than he’d thought. With a small grunt of effort, he grabs a hold of the bottle then shifts around until he’s sitting more comfortably, his back to the island and his legs splayed out in front of him.

Yes, this is good. The kitchen floor is cool and solid; grounding. He unscrews the lid from the Wild Turkey and takes a long pull, then convulses in a hacking cough.

It’s _disgusting_.

He takes another swig.

The point of this isn’t appetite, after all. It’s anesthesia.

It seems like it’s starting to work, so Castiel keeps drinking, taking longer and longer swallows, his coughs becoming more infrequent. By the time the bottle is a third of the way empty, he notes that he’s rather numb. The anger and sadness is all still there, but it’s buried, pushed down. The immediacy is faded, and the _noise_ of it is. . . blurry.

He has no idea why it took him so long to try this. He should’ve been drinking like this months ago.

Time sort of slows for a while. Castiel’s limbs are loose and relaxed, and he feels his eyelids getting heavy. There’s a flush in his face as well, and the smooth, cool floor is starting to look increasingly inviting.

Before he can muster up the strength to lie down, however, there’s movement to his right, and a body crowds in on the floor beside him.

“Hey, when you’re gonna party like this, you’re supposed to invite me.”

Dean’s voice is gentle, and he smells intoxicatingly warm and shower-fresh.

“I’ve been drinking,” Castiel says, or _thinks_ he says. The words sound muddled even to his own ears.

“I can see that,” Dean says.

Castiel turns to face him. Dean is close enough Castiel can count every freckle. His eyes are soft and fond and just _begging_ to swallow Castiel whole. Instead, he just presses their shoulders together. “I like this feeling.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, this is the fun part. But you’re gonna be a cranky bastard in the morning. Even more than usual, I mean.”

Shrugging, Castiel takes another pull of the bourbon and closes his eyes. “Guess I’ll deal with that in the morning.”

“Yeah. And I think maybe that’s enough for tonight, buddy,” Dean says. Then he reaches over and tries to gently tug the bottle from Castiel’s grasp.

Irritation flashes through Castiel instantly, and he jerks the bottle back. “I’m not _done_ yet, Dean.”

“Hey, easy,” Dean says. “Trust me, you don’t want any more.”

What little control Castiel ever had over his emotions has slipped. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on the bourbon, but in an instant the anger dissipates, leaving only the crushing sadness again. “He was eleven years old, Dean.”

Dean sighs, long and heavy. “I know, Cas.”

Tears well up in his eyes, but Castiel stubbornly refuses to let them fall. “ _Eleven_. We were supposed to save him.”

“I know,” Dean repeats. For a minute the kitchen is silent, then finally Dean speaks again, the old platitude: “We can’t save everybody.”

“That’s _bullshit_ ,” Castiel spits. “We’re just supposed to live with that? We have to. . . to _carry_ that? And what, hope we get the next one?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel turns to face him again. Dean looks like he’s on the verge of tears as well.

“It’s bullshit,” Castiel repeats, but without the anger.

Dean just nods this time, and holds out his hand for the bottle again.

After a moment, Castiel reluctantly passes it over. “I wish I could turn it all off.”

“I hear that,” Dean says, then instead of putting the bottle away, he takes a swig himself. “God, what are you drinking? This is _gross_.”

“It was convenient.”

Shaking his head, Dean sets the bottle back on the shelf and stands up. “C’mon, let’s get you in bed.” He reaches down a hand.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says stubbornly, but he takes Dean’s hand nonetheless.

Even going slowly, standing up sends Castiel’s head spinning again. Before he can do much to stop it, he’s careening sideways into Dean.

“Whoa, easy,” Dean laughs. “I got you. Now, you’re gettin’ in bed, and we’re getting you some pain pills and a bottle of water. And a bucket.”

“You’re not my babysitter,” Castiel thinks he mumbles, his lips blurring against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean huffs a laugh, slinging Castiel’s loose and sloppy arm across his shoulder. “No. But I’m your somethin.’”

Dean takes him down the hall, slowly and carefully, but they seem to arrive at Castiel’s door in no time at all. The next few moments are a blur as Dean lowers him into bed and brings a glass of refreshingly cool water to his lips.

“I’ll come check on you in a few hours,” Dean says quietly, drawing a blanket up over Castiel’s shoulders. “Try not to throw up on your bed.”

He starts moving away, but through the haze of his approaching unconsciousness, Castiel shoots out a hand to grab Dean’s wrist. “Stay.”

His bleary eyes open to find Dean’s anguished face a foot above him. “You’re not gonna remember this,” Dean mutters.

“Stay,” Castiel repeats. “Please.”

“I. . .” Dean pulls his hand away. “I’ll come check on you later,” he says, then turns and walks out of the room, closing the door with a gentle click.

Castiel misses his bottle of disgusting alcohol.

What he wouldn’t give, to be indifferent to Dean. To not feel the heartache that throbs in his chest with every passing day. To not love him.

 _No_ , Castiel thinks, as he reaches out for the glass of water. He wouldn’t give up that feeling for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really gettin' into the angst now. :D  
> Thanks for reading, everyone. 
> 
> Part 12/24 next:  
>  **Mamihlapinatapai**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire, but which neither wants to begin_
> 
> Come say hi on [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	12. Mamihlapinatapai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mamihlapinatapai**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire, but which neither wants to begin_

Over the years, Castiel and Dean have had a handful (more than a handful, really) of _near misses._

There was that time in a dusty crypt, where Dean had said _I need you_ through a mask of blood. At the time, Castiel hadn’t truly understood what he meant, still too fresh from Purgatory to accept the sentiment for what it was. And besides, there were other considerations. Duty, the mission, everything there always is. So the moment dropped.

Then there was Rexford. There was the long drive in commiserate silence, then the motel room that night; Castiel had understood by then, and he knows Dean had too. But as ever, neither of them moved. Dean left the next morning, and Castiel let him.

And again and again, these near misses, becoming more and more frequent as time stretched on. Sometimes it was merely a gaze held longer than normal, or a hand extending out into the empty space between them. Sometimes it was a quiet conversation; confessions or thanks or apologies.

Castiel had even said it once, in an old barn with his insides rotting. He was going to die, he knew it, and he couldn’t let the moment drop again, not that time.

And Dean had understood.

Circumstances have never been right, though. The two of them always seem to be a bit out of sync with one another – or the world is out of sync with them, and feelings must be put on hold until the next crisis is dealt with.

Now though, things are different. It seems Castiel’s sense of angelic patience left with his grace; he doesn’t want to wait for the moments anymore. He wants to _create_ them.

He starts one day in the kitchen. Dean is making waffles for breakfast, and Castiel is helping.

“Kind of _fold_ it,” Dean says, miming the pattern with one hand. “Don’t stir in a circle, bring it up from the bottom and sort of push it over.”

Castiel tries to imitate him, digging the spatula down into the batter, but he just seems to be making a mess. “This isn’t as easy at it looks.”

“Never is,” Dean says, grinning. He abandons the peaches he’s slicing and steps up closer to the bowl to inspect Castiel’s progress. “You’re tryin’ to get air in the batter – keeps ‘em fluffy.”

He leans in close, _very_ close, near enough Castiel can feel the heat radiating off his body. It’s so distracting that the spatula slips in his hand, and batter sprays up out of the bowl. And onto Dean.

Laughing, Dean leans back and finds Castiel’s eyes. “Nice one, Julia Child.”

Castiel stares. There’s a drop of batter clinging to Dean’s cheek.

Heart racing, Castiel reaches out a slow finger and wipes it carefully away. Dean’s smile turns mischievous, and his eyes widen a little.

Then, keeping their eyes locked, Castiel brings his sticky finger to his own lips and licks it clean.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath, and his eyes darken. He looks _hungry,_ and not for waffles.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then abruptly stops and takes a step back, his face flaring red. Castiel is thrown for a moment, but then he hears Sam’s thoroughly _predictable_ footsteps approaching from the hall.

“Hey guys, breakfast’ll have to wait,” he says, eyes on his phone. “Got us a job. Pile of empty graves in Tulsa.”

 

//

 

This zombie is among the more lively Castiel has ever seen. He ducks around a chair hurled across the room, then whips his blade back at the former Mrs. Browning. It embeds itself in her chest and she stops for a moment in surprise, but then merely yanks the blade back out and drops it to the living room floor. Now weaponless, Castiel bolts around the corner into the kitchen, but then out of nowhere a hand snags the front of his shirt and yanks him sideways.

In the next instant Castiel finds himself jammed next to Dean in a tiny pantry.

Jammed in _very tight._ They’re facing one another, with less than an inch of space between them, even with Castiel pressed against the shelves at his back. A thin crack of light from the doorframe hits Dean’s face, catching from his eye down to the corner of his mouth.

“What are we doing?” Castiel whispers.

Dean swallows, and when he speaks Castiel can feel his breath against his own lips. “We’re _hiding,”_ he whispers back. “Sam’ll be here soon.”

“Right,” Castiel says, determined not to notice the pressure of Dean’s body against his own. Near misses or no, this is hardly the time.

But then Dean shifts. It’s an absent movement, clearly an attempt to get more comfortable, but the damage is done. Their hips rub together, and heat floods through Castiel instantly. He can feel his base, human instincts taking control, his cock stirring. He looks up, but Dean closes his eyes, his lips forming a set line. He exhales slowly through his nose.

It’s obvious why a moment later, as Castiel feels Dean’s hardening cock press back against his own.

They’re both absolutely still for the next minute, the only sounds their own laboured breathing, and the shuffling and crashing from the zombie on the other side of the door.

The noise outside becomes fainter, and then half a second later they hear the front door open and close. Then there’s silence again.

“Do –” Castiel clears his throat, gone completely dry. “Do you think it’s gone?”

Dean swallows, then pushes at the door. “Only one way to find out,” he says, then elbows his way out, not looking back.

Castiel takes a moment, then follows.

 

//

 

Dean storms his way into the bunker, slamming every door. Castiel follows a few paces behind, while Sam mutters a hasty ‘goodnight’ and bolts for his bedroom.

It looks as though Dean’s headed for his as well, but Castiel isn’t letting him get away that easy. He flings out a hand to Dean’s arm, turning him back around roughly.

“You don’t get to be mad at me, Dean,” Castiel growls. “I just saved your life.”

Dean’s face is beet-red, furious. “Yeah, by almost getting killed yourself.”

“But I _didn’t,”_ Castiel says. “It was fine. The zombie went down; I’m fine, you’re fine, so what exactly is the problem, Dean?”

“The _problem,”_ Dean snaps, “is that you just flew in there, no cover, and you could’ve _died,_ you selfish bastard.”

_“Self–”_

But Dean cuts him off, spitting venom. “You’re not an angel anymore, Cas. No magic healing powers. You die, that’s _it._ And what the hell then, huh?”

Castiel narrows his eyes, and his voice turns icy. “This may shock you, Dean, but I’m perfectly aware that I’m not an angel anymore.”

Dean seems to register that he’s crossed the line, and his expression loses some of the anger. “I know. I’m just sayin,’ you can’t take risks like that, not anymore.”

“I see.” Castiel pauses, his tone softening. He takes a step in, forcing Dean to move backwards against the wall. “So that’s what this is about. You’re worried. About me.” He moves in closer, and puts his hand on the wall next to Dean’s hip, bracketing him in.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, his eyes dropping down. “What’re you doing?”

Shaking his head, Castiel leans further in, the space between them disappearing. “You know exactly what I’m doing,” he says quietly, and then he waits.

After a long, stretching silence, Dean finally speaks, voice low, almost defeated. “Yeah. I do.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but his shoulders slump a little, and his eyes stay down.

The bottom drops out of Castiel’s stomach. He steps back, pulls his hand away from the wall, and starts off down the hall to his own room. His ears are buzzing with static, and he can feel heat radiating from his face.

He only gets a few feet away though, when suddenly Dean grabs his shoulder and spins him, then shoves him roughly against the wall.

Castiel lets out a gasp as Dean crowds into him, his hands coming up to grip the lapels of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel mimics him, and then their bodies press flush together and Dean brings his mouth up to Castiel’s.

It isn’t a kiss, not quite. They’re hovering on the threshold, mouths open and panting a hair’s breadth apart. Dean’s eyes are open, just barely, and trained on Castiel’s mouth. His teeth are close, _so_ close to Castiel’s lip; all one of them would have to do is lean in, just a little.

They stay frozen like that, locked, for what feels like years. Castiel’s heart is pounding in his chest hard enough he’s certain it’ll burst through his ribs.

Then Dean’s phone rings.

He pulls back as though burned, and looks at the ground again. Castiel sags back against the wall.

He watches as Dean fumbles for his phone and brings it to his ear. “Jody, hey,” he says, the cheer in his voice sounding horribly forced. “You guys okay?”

While Dean listens, Castiel tries to breathe through the enormity of what just happened. What _almost_ just happened.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sounds like a skinwalker to me.” His eyes finally find Castiel’s; he looks rather helpless.

“I’m going to bed,” Castiel says, quiet but pointed.

The invitation is clear, if Dean’s dark eyes are any indication.

“Uh, what? Sorry, yeah. Silver.”

Castiel steps away from the wall, and walks down the corridor to his room.

He leaves the door open a crack, kicks off his shoes, and sits on the edge of his bed, heart still racing.

He waits.

After a few minutes, he distantly hears Dean’s door closing down the hall.

Castiel waits for it to open again.

And waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI FOLKS!  
> Sorry this chapter is late, I'm on VACATION right now! Just a heads up that the next chapter might therefore be late as well, but I'll be back on track for next week! I love you all!
> 
> Part 13/24:  
>  **Kuebiko**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence_


	13. Kuebiko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Kuebiko**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a content warning for this chapter:  
> It contains some more graphic depictions of violence than I have previously used (but all still canon-typical), and there is passing mention of some real-world violence / events as well. Thanks, and stay safe, folks!

Of all the monsters Castiel has encountered, both as an angel and in his time as a hunter, vampires are what always turns his stomach.

He knows there are arguments to be made about instinct and hunger and the pure necessities of survival, but part of him will always say that’s. . . bullshit. Nothing else really _enjoys_ killing this much.

A family of four – what’s left of them – lay strewn across the first floor of the farmhouse. Castiel thinks the grandfather went first, an appetizer perhaps. His body is still lying on the living room couch, and were it not for the dark and heavy splattering of blood across his throat, he could be sleeping.

The mother and father are sitting on the kitchen floor, wrists tied to one of the legs of the dining room table. Their heads are bowed, their bodies slumped against each other, and stains run down their fronts like dark red aprons. Castiel hopes they went next, so they didn’t have to watch their young daughter devoured.

Or perhaps it would have been better if they were killed after her. What a horrible thing for a child to see.

This is the third scene like this, in as many days. This nest is brutal and efficient.

“We’re catchin’ up,” Dean says.

Blinking, Castiel looks over. Dean is crouched down beside the mother, his face grim and his machete held loose in one hand. “Are we?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods and stands up again. “Bodies ain’t been here that long. They’re less than a day ahead of us now.”

“Right,” Castiel says, voice dull. He leans back against the doorframe and closes his eyes, but the images are still seared into his mind. His stomach heaves.

“You, uh. . .” Dean’s voice is closer now. “You okay?”

Castiel opens his eyes. Dean is now standing a few feet away, his machete back in the sheath at his hip. His weight shifts back and forth from one foot to the other, his expression is awkward, and his eyes are full of apology.

Just like it’s been for the past week, ever since that night in the hallway.

A short, humourless laugh huffs out of Castiel’s chest. “I’m tired, Dean,” he says. “I’m just tired.”

Dean nods, understanding but also resigned. After a few silent seconds he opens his mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and casts his eyes down.

Castiel follows his lead and looks away too. His eyes fall on a little play mat in the corner, scattered with small wooden blocks and a plastic rattle. Instantly, his heart seems to grow indescribably heavier, sinking all the way down to his knees.

Those toys are for a child far younger than the one lying in the kitchen.

“No. . .”

Dean has followed Castiel’s gaze. His face is desolate.

It’s then that Sam comes down from upstairs. Castiel has never seen his face so pale.

“There’s nothin’ left to do here,” he says, voice hollow and clipped.

Dean takes a step towards the staircase. “Is it –”

“You don’t wanna,” Sam says. There are tears in his eyes, and he shakes his head jerkily. “Let’s just go.”

Swallowing, Dean nods, then strides out the front door without looking back. Sam makes to follow, but when he notices that Castiel hasn’t moved, he stops. “Hey.”

That’s all he says, so Castiel just looks at him for a moment, still unable to move. It’s as though the weight of his heart is keeping his feet pinned in place.

Finally, Sam takes a step forward and drops a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “Yeah. I know.” He tries – and fails – to smile. “You gonna be okay?”

Castiel swallows. “No,” he says simply, then walks off after Dean.

//

Two days later, Castiel finds himself at the bunker’s kitchen table with his laptop, a few newspapers, and a cup of coffee, gone cold. He’s been reading, watching clips from news shows, and somehow time has slipped away from him.

After what must be hours, Dean comes into the kitchen. When he spots Castiel he freezes in the doorway, and for a moment seems to be deciding how obvious it would be if he just turned and walked back out.

Castiel could help him, give him some kind of out, but he doesn’t. He could say it’s his own petty revenge, forcing Dean to scramble and sweat, but in truth he can’t summon the energy. He can’t keep playing these games.

“There’s coffee,” he says quietly.

Dean swallows, his expression somewhere between relieved and hurt, but he walks over to the coffeemaker nonetheless. “What, uh, what’re you up to? Looking for a case?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to think about hunting for a little while longer.”

“Yeah, I get it. That was. . . that one was bad,” Dean says.

Castiel snorts humourlessly.

Replacing the pot beneath the filter, Dean sets his cup onto the table. After a few moments of hesitation, he sits down, opposite Castiel. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; they start wrapped around his steaming cup, but then slowly one reaches out, inching across the table to Castiel’s arm.

Castiel instantly stands up, striding a few paces away to set his half-empty cup on the kitchen island. When he turns around again, Dean’s hands have returned to his own mug, and his eyes are down.

Eventually he speaks, still not looking up. “We got ‘em though, Cas, in the end. Those vamps ain’t gonna hurt anybody else, ever again.”

“No,” Castiel agrees. “ _They_ won’t. But there will be others. More. . . vampires, and ghosts, and werewolves. And there will be more people – innocent people – who will die.”

“And that’s the job, Cas.” Dean looks up, his expression set. “It’s the job. It sucks, but it’s what we do. We stop the monsters.”

“But it’s not just monsters, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean furrows his brow, so Castiel gestures to the laptop and the newspapers.

“It’s not just vampires. Looks at what people – ordinary, human people – look at what they do. Every day.”

Warily, Dean angles the computer around and starts to scroll through the news website. After a minute his face falls. “Look, Cas –”

“Dean,” Castiel says, bringing an exhausted hand up to his temples. “I know you’ll say it’s not our job. That we can’t save every human life, and that we’re not responsible for –” he points to the newspapers now, “a man getting mugged, or a woman killed for a life insurance policy. But Dean, what’s the point of saving a child from a nest of vampires, if they can die walking into school the very next day?”

Dean sighs and leans back from the table. “So what, Cas. You gonna quit? Stop hunting, stop trying to save the people we _can_ save?”

“No, Dean.” Castiel picks up his coffee cup and walks to the sink. He dumps it out, then sets the empty mug on the counter and heads for the door. “I’m not going to quit.”

“Where’re you goin,’” Dean says.

Castiel keeps walking and doesn’t bother turning his head. “To take a _god damn nap_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI EVERYONE. I'm so sorry for the long delay between chapters! For those not following my tumblr, I was on vacation last week with my (super amazing and beautiful) girlfriend, so I gave myself a lil hiatus. But it's back on now! Just past the halfway point, and I foresee smooth sailing until the end. 
> 
> Also I'm waaaay behind on replying to comments again, but a blanket THANK YOU I LOVE YOU to everyone.
> 
> Part 14 this Wednesday:  
>  **Onism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr,](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) friends!


	14. Onism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Onism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time_

There are times when Castiel forgets.

This phenomenon is quite different to that of his faded memories. Humanity has taken pieces of his angelic past, and Castiel has made his peace with that, but this is different. This is something far more. . . human.

Castiel has stopped forgetting the things he was, but sometimes now, he forgets what he _is_. His new life, his new struggles, his new limitations. Occasionally, it just slips his mind.

It’s to be expected, of course. Castiel was an angel for eons. Millions upon millions of years – unchanging and constant. He was strength and faith and pure light, powerful and practically invulnerable.

It’s hard to unlearn.

So when Dean asks him to pull the pizza pan from the oven, Castiel doesn’t stop to think at all before opening the door and reaching in barehanded.

The pan clangs to the ground, and Castiel cries out as pain sears through his fingers and across his palm. Adrenaline like an electric shock courses through him too, and he staggers back until he slams into the counter.

“Whoa, easy!” Dean abandons his sinkful of dishes and hurries forward. “What the hell, Cas?” he says, sounding rather annoyed as he eyes the ruined pizza.

Castiel can only shake his head for a moment, too stunned to respond.

This kind of incident is still so incomprehensible. He knows he’s human now, knows that he hurts and bleeds now. Dean’s oven mitts (patterned with the Batman logo) are there on the counter beside the oven, in easy reach. Castiel even looked at them briefly when he walked in the room. And it didn’t occur to him for a _moment_ to put them on.

Like a thunderbolt, he recalls the days after Metatron’s spell, and the fall of Heaven. How he struggled to adjust to the loss of his wings.

How long it took before he stopped trying to fly.

Tears well up in his eyes, but not from the stinging pain in his hand.

Distantly, he hears Dean heave an exhausted sigh. “Alright well, c’mon, lets run that under some water.”

A gentle hand encircles Castiel’s wrist, but he instantly rips his arm away. “ _Don’t_ ,” he spits.

Dean pulls his hands up, palms forward. “Take it easy, Cas. I’m tryin’ to help.”

“I _don’t_ – you –”

The words are all sitting on his tongue, piling up onto one another, as Castiel suddenly knows they have been for months. There’s been a dam forming behind his lips, and it’s about to burst.

“What _help_?” Castiel finally shouts. He feels unhinged, detached from himself, and the words start to flood. “There is no _help_ for me, Dean! For this – for any of this. What the hell _am I_ , Dean?”

Dean’s eyes are saucer-wide. “Look, just calm down, buddy.”

Rage spikes through Castiel’s heart. Ignoring the pain still burning in his hand, he grabs for a beer bottle from the counter, and Dean ducks to the right as Castiel whips it hard through the air. It hits the wall by the kitchen door and shatters, the pieces narrowly missing Sam, likely drawn by the noise.

“Whoa, what the hell?” Sam says, throwing up an arm to shield his face. “What’s going on?”

“ _Is this all there is_?” Castiel cries. His voice shakes and his whole body trembles. He barely registers the wetness on his face. “Is this what I am now? Weak, fallible, stuck like this, in this stupid, _human_ body?”

“Get a _grip_ , Cas,” Dean growls.

Castiel laughs, delirious. “A _grip_? On _what_ , Dean? Nothing is – there’s _nothing_ left now, nothing left of me, of –” Castiel still feels apart from himself, the words barely making sense to his own ears. “Do you know, do you have any idea, what I was? How. . . how _much_ I was? The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done, an eternity lived – more than your fragile little brains can begin to comprehend. . .”

Hard and heavy breaths rasp out of Castiel’s throat, and his pulse thunders in his ears.

Sam takes a step forward. “Cas, look –”

“ _No_!” Castiel shouts over him. “Don’t – don’t try and – I’ll never be _anything_ now. All the things – things I could’ve been. . .”

“Damn it Cas, _breathe_ ,” Dean says.

Castiel jerks his head around wildly and finds Dean’s panicked-looking eyes.

But Castiel doesn’t want to breathe. This rage, this eruption – he needs it.

It’s all he has left now.

Dean tries to take another step closer, his hands raised again, placating, but Castiel can’t let him in.

Before Dean can react, Castiel pulls back a fist.

Dean lets the hit land.

A sickening crack echoes through the kitchen as the bones in Castiel’s already throbbing hand break. Dean staggers back, his own hand coming up to cradle his jaw.

The look in his eyes is unreadable.

“Do you know what I gave up for this?” Castiel hisses.

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t change his expression at all.

Castiel pulls his gaze away to glare at Sam for a moment, still frozen by the kitchen door.

“Is this _it_? Is this what I fell for?”

His legs move of their own accord, stumbling backwards. Half-blind, he turns away from Sam and Dean and staggers from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, folks! I love you all to the moon and back.
> 
> Part 15 coming up:  
>  **Mauerbauertraurigkeit**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like_
> 
> Come be my friend on [tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	15. Mauerbauertraurigkeit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mauerbauertraurigkeit**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the inexplicable urge to push people away, even closer friends who you really like_

Since the fight in the kitchen, Castiel has barely left his bedroom. For the last three days, all he’s done is sit on his bed, trapped in his own thoughts.

He doesn’t read or write in his notebooks, doesn’t scroll through his phone. He only leaves the room late at night, when he’s certain Sam and Dean are asleep and there’s no chance of running into them in the halls. Even then, he’s out and back in quickly, making dashes to the bathroom, or the kitchen when his hunger gets too painful to ignore.

Dean has pounded on the door, rattling the handle and yelling words like _coward_ and _asshole._ Sam once sat outside for two hours, speaking softly through the wooden slats at the bottom of the door. Castiel doesn’t really know what he’d been saying. He tuned him out.

It’s hard for him to even understand why. Even through all his confusion and pain and anger, it’s as though Castiel is at war with himself. Every moment he spends in his self-imposed solitude, there’s a voice in his head, somewhere at the back, screaming to be heard.

 _Apologize,_ it says. _What are you doing, why are you just sitting there? Stand up and open the door and fix this._

The thoughts run on a loop in his head, and each passing second Castiel feels the voice try and propel him up out of bed.

It never does, though. That little voice isn’t quite loud enough to drown out the other – the one filled with bleak and heavy certainty, that knows what must be done now.

At some point in the middle of the third day (Castiel hasn’t looked at his clock for a very long time), there’s another knock on the door, and Sam’s anxious voice drifts through the vent.

“Cas? Look, I’m. . . I’m comin’ in, okay?”

Castiel doesn’t bother to reply. There’s a light, metallic clicking at the lock then, and he briefly considers dragging the desk chair over to wedge beneath the handle, but in the end he can’t be bothered. Now is as good a time as any to get started on his plan.

After a few moments the handle turns, and Sam cautiously swings the door open. Pocketing his lock-pick, he awkwardly steps through the doorway, his eyes tracking over the mussed bed. Over the last few days Castiel hasn’t spared a moment to think of his appearance, but he’s sure he looks like crap.

Sam clears his throat. “Sorry I had to. . . y’know. This way though, Dean won’t have to break the door down.”

Still, Castiel doesn’t respond, but he meets Sam’s eyes and waits.

“Look, Cas,” Sam starts, swallowing again. “You can’t keep just stayin’ in here like this. You can’t just. . . waste away. You’re better than that.”

Castiel almost laughs. The little voice begs him to respond, but he keeps silent.

“Listen, man, you’re drowning here, you’re overwhelmed, I get it. I know what you’re going through –”

“You don’t,” Castiel finally says. He keeps his voice hard and cold. “But of course you’d say that, Sam. It’s what you do.”

Sam’s mouth slams shut, and his eyes go wide with shock. He looks as though he’s been slapped in the face.

Good, Castiel thinks, even as the little voice cries out in protest. “You have no idea what I’m going through, Sam, you couldn’t possibly. But you put on this voice and you say you relate, because a problem isn’t real unless it’s about you. You’re about as far from understanding someone else’s feelings as you could ever be.”

A savage thrill runs through Castiel as he takes in Sam’s devastated expression. His mouth forms a thin line and he nods once, his eyes cast down. “Right,” he says, voice tight, then makes his way back to the door.

 _Stop it_ , screams the voice. _Take it back_.

Sam pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “Try and remember who it is you’re hurting here, Cas,” he says, then leaves the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind himself.

_Get up. Get up and go after him and make it right._

Castiel stands, but he doesn’t go to the door. Instead, he walks to the other side of the room and starts digging through his closet.

 

//

 

When Dean comes into the room, he doesn’t bother knocking. The door bangs open, slamming into the dresser hard enough to scratch the wood’s finish. Dean looks as angry as Castiel’s ever seen him, but Castiel just relaxes back against the pillows. This must be done.

“You’re a goddamn bastard, you know that?” Dean growls. “The hell’s the matter with you, huh?”

“Well, I learned from the best,” Castiel says.

“Oh, clever,” Dean snaps back. “You spend the last three fucking days thinking that one up?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, Dean, that’s not what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Then what, huh?” Dean steps up closer to the bed, hands forming fists at his sides. “You’ve been sitting here like a two-year-old after a tantrum, ignoring us, treating us like crap after everything we’ve done for you –”

“That’s just it.”

 _Don’t,_ says the voice, but Castiel squares his shoulders. “It’s not enough, Dean.”

Dean narrows his eyes, waiting.

 _Please don’t_.

Swallowing, heart racing, Castiel looks Dean dead in the eye. “You’re not enough. You never were.”

The blow lands harder than a fist ever could. Dean’s expression goes blank, empty.

Castiel finally stands. _Stop it, please stop_. “You’re not enough, Dean,” he repeats. He needs to drive this home; everything will be so much easier this way.

Dean looks shell-shocked, and he starts shaking his head.

“I regret falling,” Castiel says firmly. “Do you hear me? I wish I’d never done it.”

 _Stop it. Stop lying. Tell him the truth_.

This finally seems to snap Dean out of it. He gives his head one last, decisive shake, then takes a step in. “Stop,” he snaps. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I don’t know what this is?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Castiel says, working hard to keep his voice from wavering. _Enough._

“Bullshit,” Dean says. “Who d’you think you’re dealing with, Cas, huh?”

Castiel steps in too, bringing them nose-to-nose. “The same sad, scared little boy I always have. Too afraid to do anything,” he spits. _Please._

Dean swallows nervously, but he holds his ground. “This shit you’re sayin’ – you don’t get to run my playbook, Cas.”

“I’m not,” he says, and he breaks away, backing up towards the bed. “I’m finally being honest. Now get out.” _Please stay_.

There’s only a moment’s hesitation before Dean turns on his heel and storms his way out of the room. The slamming door echoes throughout the bunker, and Castiel feels a strange weight lifted from his shoulders.

 

//

 

A few hours later, Castiel makes his way quietly out to the war room. Sam and Dean are both sleeping, or at the very least sequestered in their own rooms.

Castiel pulls his phone from his pocket. He pries open the back and pulls out the sim card, then snaps it in two. He leaves the phone and the broken pieces on the table.

Next he pulls out his wallet. It’s Jimmy’s old wallet, really, full of Jimmy’s credit cards and ID, but Castiel has never had reason to get a new one. He pulls out the cash, then leaves the wallet on the table as well.

There should be no confusion as to what has happened. This isn’t an abduction, or another mission, or even a few days’ break from the bunker. This is it.

He casts one last look at the library, then as quietly as he can, he climbs the staircase and slips through the door.

It will be clear to them. Leaving is what Castiel does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this is peak angst lvls, guys. So, it probably won't get worse?  
> Anyway, thanks for being awesome, I love y'all.
> 
> Part 16:  
>  **Chrysalism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm_
> 
> Be my friend on [le tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	16. Chrysalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chrysalism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm_

The rain started up about ten miles south of St Louis. At first it was just a light patter sprinkling against the windshield, but it quickly grew to a downpour that blurred the entire road. It took Castiel several minutes and a near-miss with a minivan before he finally found the correct knob for the windshield wipers in his new, pilfered station wagon.

It’s his fifth car today. He left the bunker in an old Cadillac from the garage, but abandoned it in a parking lot the moment he hit Phillipsburg. From there he jimmied the lock on an SUV and headed west into Colorado, then switched to a little coup and doubled back east. He swapped the coup out for a rusty pickup in Wichita, then promptly dumped it and hopped a bus from Springfield to Jefferson City.

Despite everything, Castiel is grateful for all he’s learned from Sam and Dean over the years. Now he knows how not to be found.

He came acros the station wagon behind a dingy 24-hour diner by the bus depot. It hadn’t wanted to start at first, but after a half hour spent poking around under the hood, the engine eventually sputtered to life. As he drove away, Castiel’s stomach had briefly clenched with guilt.

He’s fairly sure this isn’t what Dean had in mind for these skills, all those hours working together in the garage.

With a shake of his head, Castiel had firmly pushed away all thoughts of Dean. Leaving was the right decision.

He hangs a right out of St Louis, heading south with no particular destination in mind. It doesn’t really matter right now where he ends up. He keeps his mind blank and lets the wet swish of passing cars and the rhythmic sway of the wipers guide his movements. It isn’t peaceful, exactly, but it’s blissfully automatic. It’s a relief; he’s shed a terrible weight and left it all eight hundred miles behind him.

The afternoon wears on into evening; Castiel’s eyelids grow heavier and the rain only seems to pound harder, so he pulls into a highway motel for the night. Thunder and lightning start to roar as he checks in at the office, and even though it’s a quick dash from the car to his door, he still ends up soaked and dripping by the time he crosses the threshold. His shoes squelch against the carpet as walks across the room to dump his duffel on the cheap formica table. The room has a familiar air of shabbiness and reeks of cigarettes, but at least it’s dry. He peels off his jacket and tosses it uncaringly onto the chair, then crosses back over to the front window. He’s intending to close the blinds, but then pauses with his hand halfway to the pullstring.

It’s funny that it’s raining. Or, not funny, exactly. It’s fitting. Somehow it feels like catharsis – his own release after months and months of near silent struggle, mirrored in the cloudburst above.

 _Pathetic fallacy_ , he thinks. Humans came up with this concept, assigning personal significance to something as natural and commonplace as a thunderstorm, but for the first time Castiel thinks he understands why. It’s comforting, in a way, to find a connection to the natural world.

Outside, the storm is deafening. The rain pounds relentlessly on the road and the roof of the motel and thunder cracks directly above his head, but it’s all strangely muffled and far away. It’s as though Castiel is in a bubble, the outside world turned into a dark, blue-grey blur.

Abandoning the curtains, he backs up until his knees hit the bed and sits down, heedless of his wet clothes. For a long, long time, he just watches.

There was no feeling like this as an angel, in Heaven or otherwise. He feels. . . _safe_. Protected, insulated. The world outside is complicated and fraught with disappointment, but in this dingy little room he is removed. Right now he simply exists, in one place and at this one point in time. Castiel is neither human nor angel, nor _being_ ; he is one solitary dot on a vast, endless continuum. He has no past, and no future. He is this moment – alone and apart from it all. Apart from _himself_ , and every terrible, overwhelming feeling he’s felt for the past few months.

For the past few _years_ , really.

He’s at peace.

He knows it can’t last. Reality will come crashing back in the moment he steps outside again, away from this safe little womb and back into the downpour. Sooner than he’d like, he’ll have to face the rest of his life: where to go, what to do, who to _be_. But for tonight, he will stay on this bed and watch the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everybody!! Y'all rock my socks.
> 
> Part 17 comin' up!  
>  **Lachesism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the desire to be struck by disaster; to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire_
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	17. Lachesism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Lachesism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the desire to be struck by disaster; to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire_

Castiel does a lot of driving over the next two weeks. Up and down, east and west, criss-crossing backroads and highways and never staying still for more than a few hours. He’s not using a map, not heading in any particular direction. It’s almost as if he’s letting the road itself lead him, and he follows the bends and curves and turns almost mindlessly. Delaware, Ohio, Alabama, California; he checks different states off a mental list, seeing their fields and mountains but registering absolutely nothing. He gives Kansas a wide berth.

Some nights he stays at motels, others he simply pulls over on a deserted stretch and climbs into the backseat to sleep. He changes cars every few days, and he only uses cash, pilfered from the bunker’s emergency supply before he left.

Castiel is quite certain his evasive efforts have been sufficient, but he’s still anxious, looking over his shoulder wherever he goes. There’s a nagging piece of him that fears facing Sam and Dean, after all the damage he’s done and the pain he’s caused. He fears being found.

There’s another piece of him that’s desperate for it.

After a few aimless weeks, he finds himself somewhere in South Carolina. He’s on a four-lane state highway when the traffic slows to a standstill. They sit in place for a long while, but eventually Castiel spots a uniformed police officer on foot, stopping at each car gridlocked along the roadway. Anxiety flares up in Castiel’s stomach, but he keeps his body relaxed, schools his expression into something neutral, unassuming. _It’s my friend’s car, I’m just borrowing it for the day. Here’s the registration._

The officer finishes with the car in front of Castiel’s, then walks up to the open window.

“Morning, sir,” she says, eyes running over the vehicle in a measured sweep. “There’s been an accident up ahead; we’re getting things cleaned up as quick as we can but you folks are going to have to sit for a while yet.”

Castiel tries not to let his relief show, even as his hands relax their grip on the steering wheel. “That’s alright,” he says. “Was anyone hurt?”

The officer nods grimly, not really looking at him. “Yeah, ‘fraid so. Sedan went head-on with a semi. It’s. . . a bit of a mess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Castiel says. There’s a strange flutter in his gut, but he ignores it.

“Yeah.” She pauses for a moment, then pats the open window frame. “We’ll get you movin’ as quick as we can,” she says, then straightens up and moves on to the next car.

It takes an hour before traffic starts moving again, and Castiel spends the entire time imagining what he’ll see when he passes by. He knows it can’t be worse than all the things he’s seen before – all the things he’s _done_ before – but he can’t help the trepidation that he feels as he comes up to the flashing lights and arrangement of traffic cones.

The demolished vehicles have been towed onto the shoulder, and there are half a dozen emergency vehicles all clustered together – including, Castiel notes, a coroner’s van. A different officer is directing traffic around the wreck, and as Castiel inches by he can’t help but look, feeling a strange, morbid curiosity.

There’s not much left to see, but he catches a glimpse of shattered glass and some scraps of mangled metal, both of which are splashed with blood. Further along, there’s an ambulance with its back doors open, and a young woman sitting just inside. Her clothing is torn, her face is dirty and covered in blood as well, and her eyes stare out across the road, wide and distant.

Castiel stares at her as he drives past, unable to look away. He expects to feel sadness, perhaps pity. Instead, he is thoroughly shocked to discover that really, he _envies_ her.

The traffic clears as Castiel drives further and further from the accident scene, but that feeling lingers in his mind. It’s confounding, but unmistakable; in that moment, Castiel had wished to trade places with the woman, to live through her horror.

It’s possible he’s going insane. After everything Castiel has seen and done and lived through, how can even a small part of him wish for more?

He doesn’t want to die, it isn’t that, but neither does he crave a thrill, or the rush of terror from testing his mortality (he’s become rather well acquainted with that already). No, this isn’t about feeling alive, this is about feeling _loss_.

He’s experienced disaster before – and calamity, and tragedy – but what has it made him? He’s become weak and diminished: shattered as much as the windshield on the road behind him. Perhaps it’s another one of those things that a former angel can never truly understand. Humans experience loss, but they always seem to come through the other side better for it. Disaster strengthens them, turns them to steel, while Castiel’s tragedy has only weakened him.

It hits him then, on a silent stretch of backcountry road. It’s a desire to transform.

Perhaps he envied the woman because he realizes how much he _needs_ a human kind of loss. He needs to be stripped of everything he has, everything that surrounds him. Family and property; things both material and intangible. He needs to not just shed the weight he’s been carrying, but he needs it gone, forever.

And maybe then, losing everything would reveal what was most important. It would show Castiel what he needed to do now, in what direction he should move. He can start to rebuild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love you all!
> 
> Part 18 on Wednesday!  
>  **Sonder**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	18. Sonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sonder**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own_

Castiel wasn’t looking for a case, he truly wasn’t. Living this new life, this existence free of Sam and Dean and obligation, Castiel isn’t sure he wants to be hunting. It’s difficult on his own, and on any case he picks up, there’s always the risk of running into Sam and Dean. Besides, it’s all too complicated right now, still too fresh.

He doesn’t know what he wants, really, and he feels pulled apart in a hundred directions. He wants to help people, and he wants to forget about everyone else in the world. He wants to wander through a busy city, surrounded by strangers, and he wants a quiet, solitary life, far away from civilization.

Castiel wants to disappear completely from the face of the world. And he wants to run back home to the people he loves.

Through all that uncertainty though, it seems there’s a part of him too fundamental to ignore, and so after almost a month on his own, he finds himself in a cemetery, looking down on a flaming coffin. It hadn’t been a terribly challenging case, but the spirit of George Solomon had taken his share of lives. As always, Castiel feels he arrived too late.

The next morning he makes his way back to the home of one Adam Bailey, the brother of Solomon’s final victim.

“So you caught the guy,” Adam says, gesturing to the living room couch. “It’s over?”

Castiel nods and sits down. “Yes.”

“And. . . why? Why did this guy go after her? What the hell did she ever do?” he says.

“She didn’t do anything,” Castiel says. “Sometimes there’s a reason, or a pattern – something that makes sense. But your sister just. . . got in his way. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Adam’s eyes are raking his face, still searching for answers, so Castiel squares his shoulders. “But he won’t hurt anyone else ever again, you have my word on that.”

After a long, searching moment, Adam drops his head into his propped hands, and a deep sigh heaves out of his chest. “I dunno,” he says, looking back up at Castiel and shaking his head “I thought hearing that would make me feel better. But she’s still gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. The phrase feels useless on his tongue, as it always has, but there’s nothing else he can offer.

“It’s just – Cara didn’t deserve this,” Adam says. “She’d been through so much already. Life. . . life had a way of kicking her when she was down, you know? I mean, we lost our parents when we were little. I was older, I should’ve looked after her better, but it hit me pretty hard. She just powered through though. She held it together when I couldn’t.”

Castiel smiles sadly, then glances around the room and takes in the wide array of framed photographs spread across every surface. “Are you a photographer?” he asks.

Nodding, Adam stands from his armchair and walks to the mantle of his fireplace. “Yeah, weddings and events and stuff. Here.” He retrieves a frame and hands it to Castiel.

It’s a photo of Cara and another woman, their heads pressed close together and eyes bright. They look deliriously happy.

“That’s Cara and Jamila, her wife.”

Castiel frowns. “I didn’t think she was married.”

“She wasn’t, not anymore,” Adam says, misty eyes trained on the two women. “There was a car accident a couple years ago. Cara got pretty messed up, she was stuck in the hospital for weeks, but Jamila died on the scene.”

A lump forms in Castiel’s throat. “That’s horrible. I can’t imagine.”

Again, Adam pushes out a sigh. “Like I said, she didn’t deserve this. She’d been through too much already. She should’ve had her happy ending.”

The tears in Adam’s eyes are threatening to well over. He grabs the photograph from Castiel’s hands and replaces it on the mantle.

“Uh, anyway, you want coffee or something?” he says, not looking at Castiel and already walking toward the kitchen. “Yeah, just. . . I’ll get some coffee going.”

He leaves the room, and Castiel is left to stand helplessly in a stranger’s living room. With little else to do, he looks at the photographs.

There are dozens of them, presumably of family and friends. Some are taken at parties and holidays but others are candids from bus stops and beaches and coffee shops. Most appear to be taken relatively recently, but on the wall above the couch he finds a large multi-photo frame with old snapshots of two children Castiel imagines must be Cara and Adam.

They’re average family photos, like the hundreds Castiel has seen in homes just like this all over the country. He identifies family vacations, sports competitions, Halloween costumes. One photo shows the two of them at about five or six years old, beaming, and standing on a porch wearing backpacks. Castiel realizes it must be the first day of school, and in that moment it’s as though he’s struck by a thunderbolt, every inch of him suddenly alive with understanding.

Cara Bailey lived a life of infinite experience. She felt joy and pain, triumph and loss. She saw and did things Castiel can never imagine. This woman knew nothing of Heaven or Hell or apocalypses, and her world spun on anyway, guided entirely by herself and full of its own intricate struggles.

And in much the same way, Adam Bailey is living his own life as well, the protagonist in a story continuously unfolding, and in which Castiel is only one minor character.

He stands in the living room a long time, surrounded by dozens of images from a life too foreign and complex to ever understand.

For the first time, he thinks he sees his path a little clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! You guys rock!! A lot!!
> 
> Part 19:  
>  **Occhiolism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the awareness of the smallness of your perspective_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	19. Occhiolism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Occhiolism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the awareness of the smallness of your perspective_

Castiel traces idle fingers down the side of his water glass, drawing up the beads of condensation. The sun is warm on his face – almost hot – but the cool May breeze cuts through it. It’s a perfect day, really; the street is filled with people.

“Can I get you some more coffee?”

Startled, Castiel glances up at the waitress standing next to his table, coffee pot in hand. She’s very young, maybe still in high school. “Yes, thank you,” he says, and she picks up his empty cup to refill it.

“Anything else you need?” she asks, setting it back on the patio table.

Castiel considers her a moment. “How old are you?”

She looks surprised at first, then a little unnerved, throwing a glance back towards the door to the café.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says quickly. “I don’t mean to be. . . I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You just seem very young to have a job.”

A bit of the tension eases from her shoulders, but she still looks wary. “Yeah, maybe. But those jiu jitsu classes don’t pay for themselves,” she says pointedly.

Castiel smiles and nods. Her tone was light, but the warning is clear. “Of course. And I don’t need anything else just now, thank you.”

She nods and moves away to wait on another table, and Castiel turns his attention back to the street.

This is something he’d always liked doing as an angel. _People-watching_ , Sam called it once. He said that he enjoyed creating stories for the people he saw, imagining what their lives were like. He’d tried to hide it, but Castiel could see how envious he was.

Castiel had been envious as well, but in a different way.

It wasn’t about _being_ them, but about what they were. He knew, even from the beginning, how much better humanity was; their strengths, their passions, their ability to create. Uriel saw them as a disgusting and rather boring experiment – as a child would view an ant farm – but Castiel always looked at them with reverence.

Despite his love for humanity, however, as an angel he always saw them through a certain lens. A glass case, almost, as though they were a fascinating museum display. They were untouchable and unknowable, and therefore uncomplicated. He had thought he’d known them, understood them, but he’s come to realize he never did. And never will.

There’s a park across the street from the patio. Castiel watches a mother try to wrangle three young children into line at a hotdog stand. One of them squirms in her arms, another seems to be in the middle of a temper tantrum, and the other keeps wandering away, intent on chasing a squirrel.

She looks exhausted, but whenever she looks at the child in her arms, she smiles, soft but wide.

A group of young women are clustered on a picnic blanket a little further away. They’re giggling together, clutching plastic Starbucks cups and passing around a magazine. Every so often, one of them will extend her left hand to one of the others, showing off a sparkling ring.

There’s a slight tickling on his own hand, so Castiel looks down to find a ladybug crawling across his knuckles. Carefully, he moves his hand to the edge of the table, and waits until it climbs onto the metal edge. He watches it a little while after, marvelling at this tiny creature, still managing to exist in a world much too big for it.

Castiel will never know what it’s like to be a ladybug. He won’t know the lives of the young women on the picnic blanket, of the mother, or of any one of her children. He’ll never understand the experience of the teenaged boy walking his dog through the park, or the old man a little ways down the street, playing violin with an empty case at his feet.

He’ll never know what it’s like to be Dean. To live life carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and to feel that by asking for love, he is taking from those around him and bleeding them dry. To see himself as a corrupting force.

Particularly to those new to humanity, uncertain, and flailing out for dry land instead of learning to swim.

Castiel was holy once, a higher being, existing far above the rabble of life on earth, and despite all that he could never truly understand. He thought that as a human, living among these people – and as one of them – things would finally be made clear. The pieces of his existence would fall into place, and he would know his purpose.

But there is no grand continuum of experience, of joy or of suffering. Castiel’s problems and struggles cannot be compared to anyone else’s, because no one can live every life. His pain is no worse or more valid than another’s – it is merely _his_. He is one person, living out one long, complicated life. His perspective is unrepeatable, but all the same, it’s only one among billions of others.

Like so many things, humanity hasn’t turned out the way he’s expected. But as he stands from his table, leaving a generous tip for the waitress, he thinks it wasn’t ever supposed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks gang! Each of you is a perfect and mighty flower. 
> 
> Almost done here! Chapter 20 coming up next:  
>  **Jouska**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com) for friendship reasons.


	20. Jouska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Jouska**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head_

There’s a fist in Castiel’s gut, clenched tight. Every so often it slackens off, when his mind gets a little distracted, but as soon as he refocuses it pulses again, tighter each time.

His hands grip the wheel, and he starts over again.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for the things I said.”

_Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, Cas._

“I know, Dean. I have so much to make up for.”

He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, clear as a bell. He knows what’s coming.

_Who says we’re gonna give you the chance?_

The fist squeezes again. Castiel swallows and takes a moment to look out at a road sign. The exit for Lebanon is in four miles.

“I shouldn’t have left the way I did.”

_You shouldn’t have left at all. But that’s what you do, isn’t it? Not like we were surprised when we woke up and you were gone._

“I felt I needed to be alone. I was dealing with a lot.”

_Yeah, well boo-hoo, Cas. Next time put on your big girl panties and deal with it, don’t go running off like a coward._

His stomach writhes. He’s making a mistake, in going back. In all likelihood, Dean won’t let him stay. Castiel has used up all his chances.

_We’ve been glad to have you gone. One less mouth to feed, one less thing to worry about._

“I want to come home, Dean.”

The Dean in his mind’s eye glares and crosses his arms.

_This ain’t your home, Cas._

Castiel swallows, and tries again.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for the things I said.”

_Sorry, really. For what? For telling me I’m not enough for you?_

“Yes, Dean. It wasn’t true. I was trying to hurt you. I don’t even really know why.”

 _Bullshit, you know why. Because hurting us is easier than dealing with your own crap. Jeez, and you think Sammy’s selfish_.

“I know. It was selfish. And I know I hurt you, hurt both of you. That’s why I needed to leave. I needed time on my own. I couldn’t stand to hurt you any more than I already had.”

_So you leave, middle of the night, no warning. And we go out of our minds worrying. That’s selfish too, Cas._

Castiel shuts his eyes for a moment as the hand in his stomach clenches again.

“I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

_I don’t know if you can, Cas._

He should turn around. He should find a nameless corner of the earth and stay there.

“I know why you pulled away, Dean. I know why you couldn’t let me in. I shouldn’t have been so angry with you for it. You were right, I wasn’t ready.”

_I don’t love you, Cas. I don’t want to be with you like that. Not anymore. I can’t._

Castiel pulls in a shaking, shuddering breath. He’s about to start over again, but then he realizes with a start he’s parked in front of the bunker.

It seems he hadn’t even noticed taking the exit.

For almost a full minute, he just sits in the driver’s seat, staring at the front entrance. Then before he can change his mind, he opens the car door and walks over, his feet moving on autopilot.

_Why the hell should we ever trust you again?_

For a moment, Castiel isn’t sure if he should knock; he’s frozen, his fist raised a few inches from the door. But then an image comes into his mind, of Dean refusing to let him in. Or worse, slamming the door in his face. So Castiel reaches out a shaking hand and turns the key in the lock.

_We don’t want you here. Leave, and stay gone this time._

It’s quiet inside. Castiel wonders briefly if Sam and Dean are out, gone on a hunt maybe. He doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved. Taking a breath, he starts down the entryway hall. His footsteps echo against the concrete, and the main door groans when he hauls it open and steps onto the landing.

The lights are on, but there’s no one in sight. He doesn’t know if he should call out a greeting – but he doesn’t think his nerves would allow the words to come out anyway. Instead, he starts down the wrought-iron stairs, eyes on the library. There’s still nothing.

 _We’re never gonna forgive you._ I’m _never gonna forgive you._

Castiel reaches the bottom and inches into the room, setting his duffel down on the table. Before he can think what to do next, however, there’s footsteps coming from the kitchen door behind him.

“Sam, hey, you find anything?”

The hand twisting Castiel’s gut clenches tight. The footsteps stop abruptly, and he hears Dean give a sharp inhale. Slowly, Castiel turns around.

Dean looks awful. There are bags beneath his eyes, and the lines on his forehead seem more pronounced than normal. His shirt is rumpled, and he looks as though he hasn’t shaved in a week. His face is a mask of shock.

Castiel swallows and tries to ignore the way his knees are shaking. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t react, save a minute shake of his head.

“Where’s, uh. . .” Castiel tears his gaze away and glances briefly back at the library. “Where’s Sam?”

He looks back to find Dean squaring his shoulders. His mouth forms a set line. “Rapid City. Thought we. . . thought we had a bead on you.”

“Right,” Castiel says. The fist squeezes tighter, but he braces himself and takes a breath. “Dean, I’m sorry. I –”

Dean starts moving then, closing the distance between them with that same determined look on his face. Castiel readies himself for the blow.

But Dean doesn’t hit him. Instead, both arms come up and he’s yanking Castiel into a fierce hug, burying his face in his shoulder. He’s shaking.

Castiel stays frozen for a few seconds, too stunned to react, then all at once the fist in his stomach releases its hold. He melts; it’s possible that if Dean weren’t holding him up, he’d collapse to the floor.

His own hands come around and grip the back of Dean’s shirt, tight, and he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! I hope this was worth all the angst guys.
> 
> Part 21 next Sunday:  
>  **Ellipsism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out_
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


	21. Ellipsism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Ellipsism**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. a sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out_

The next few days back at the bunker are a strange whirl of emotions, both good and bad. Sam returns home looking almost as worn-out as Dean had, but the hug he bestows upon Castiel is tight and relieved.

However, despite their initial reactions there’s still a lot of work to do.

So Castiel talks, he makes his apologies. And Sam and Dean. . . they listen. And then, to Castiel’s great surprise, they make apologies of their own.

It’s hard, as he knew it would be, but still, there’s a kind of peace to it all. With every apology and mended fence, Castiel feels a bit of weight lift from his shoulders.

They agree to hold off on hunting for a while, and instead try to make this a second start. This time though, Castiel isn’t sequestering himself in his bedroom. After being away from them for so long, he knows he needs to be with his family.

After dinner on his fourth day back, Dean stands from the table and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Alright, Dean Cave, right now. Trek marathon.”

Sam snorts. “I’ll pass. Only thing worse than suffering through _The Final Frontier_ is watching you nerd out over Captain Kirk.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth tilts up, and Dean’s cheeks go a little pink. “Okay, what about even-numbers only? _Wrath of Khan, Voyage Home_. And also, shut up.”

Still, Sam shakes his head. “Sorry guys, I’m beat anyway. You have fun though,” he says, throwing a strangely significant wink Dean’s way. “‘Night.”

Dean watches him walk out of the kitchen, then swallows and turns back to Castiel. “Alright, fine. You game?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, smiling slightly. “That sounds like fun.”

“Good. I wasn’t really gonna give you a choice, but good.”

They spend the next few hours in front of the impressively large television, sharing a case of beer and a large bowl of popcorn. Dean talks throughout all the movies, pointing out trivia and explaining details with a beaming grin on his face. He gets up after each movie to put on the next, and each time he returns to the couch they seem to be sitting closer and closer together, their thighs brushing.

The hours pass, and as tempting as it is to only pay attention to Dean, Castiel finds himself absorbed in the films. When _First Contact_ comes to an end, he just stares at the credits screen, distracted.

Dean lets out a yawn, breaking a long stretch of silence. “Alright, that’s as good a place as any to quit, I think,” he says. “It’s late, and we don’t talk about _Nemesis_ anyway.”

Castiel nods vaguely, still lost in thought.

“You okay?”

Startled, Castiel turns his head to find Dean staring at him, looking worried. It’s with some surprise that Castiel realizes he has tears in his eyes.

A few months ago, Castiel would have ignored them and brushed off Dean’s concern. But things are different now, _Castiel_ is different now – or he’s trying to be. He takes a moment to breathe, then tries to work it out.

“Why do you like these so much?” he asks.

“What, movies?” Dean says, brow furrowed.

“Not just movies,” Castiel says, then gestures at the credits screen. “These ones. Star Trek, science fiction.”

Strangely, Dean looks at little embarrassed. “I mean, c’mon. There’s space battles, and cool guns and stuff.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Orion slave girls.”

Castiel gives him a look. “It’s not that, though, is it?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I dunno. I guess. . .” he looks away for a bit, considering. “It sounds dumb. But it’s hopeful, I guess. I mean, we’ve got this shit world we live in. There’s monsters and all that crap, but the rest of the world too. The _real_ world. You know that,” he adds, inclining his head to Castiel. “But Trek is a future where we all get out of it okay.”

“Right,” Castiel says, nodding. “I always thought I’d see that.”

He finds Dean’s eyes, and watches some of the understanding hit him.

“I’m very, very old, Dean. I’ve seen almost everything. And of course, there was always the possibility of dying in battle,” Castiel says, “but I think part of me assumed I’d just. . . always be here. I thought I’d get to see how it all turned out. I guess I took eternity for granted.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah. I bet humanity’s kind of a tough break, after that.”

Castiel chuckles a little in agreement.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel can hear just how much he means it. “I know this. . . I know it’s not what you thought it’d be. What you wanted it to be.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Castiel says quickly. “I –” he stops again, pursing his lips and fumbling for the right words.

“You don’t have to explain,” Dean says. He’s starting to look nervous, like he thinks Castiel is about to explode again.

Castiel shakes his head. “I want to. It’s just. . .” He trails off, but this time Dean just waits.

Finally, the answer comes to him. “It’s loss.”

Dean’s brow is furrowed again. “Loss?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. I know it’s strange to talk about losing something that hasn’t happened, but that’s what it is. Earth, humanity, all the thing’s you’ll do. . .” he pauses, then smiles a little “That _we’ll_ do. I won’t get to see it. All this time I’ve been struggling, I’ve been mourning my lost future, but I haven’t really dealt with it. I haven’t let myself grieve.”

The revelation is heavy, but it’s the last bit of weight that seems to lift from Castiel’s shoulders. He smiles at Dean again, reveling in the freedom.

“So what now?” Dean asks. “How do you. . . fix that?”

“This helps,” Castiel says, nodding at the television set. Then he swallows, and feels his heart start to pound. “And this.” He gestures to Dean, less than a foot away on the couch beside him.

The moment hangs in the air as their eyes lock. After a long, suspended minute, Dean leans in, just a little, and his eyes drop to Castiel’s lips.

“It’s late.”

It takes Castiel a moment to realize that the words came out of his own mouth.

Dean leans away, blushing. “Right, yeah. Sorry,” he mutters, making to stand up.

Castiel feels a stirring of panic. “No, don’t be, I –” He throws out a hand to Dean’s wrist. “Just. . . thank you.”

“For what?” Dean says, not meeting his eyes.

“For this,” Castiel says. “For tonight, for listening. And also. . .” He pauses, heart still pounding. “Thank you for taking me back.”

Dean finally looks at him again. “Yeah. I always will, Cas. You know that, right?”

Warmth blooms in Castiel’s chest. “Yeah, I do. I’ll, uh, see you in the morning?” he says. He hopes it sounds like the promise that it is.

Dean seems to understand, because he smiles softly. “Yeah. ‘Night, Cas.”

Castiel releases his wrist, and Dean turns and walks from the room.

With a small smile, Castiel turns off the tv, and starts off for his own room. The warmth lingers in his chest, and his steps fall lighter than they have in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Thanks for reading everybody, truly. 
> 
> Chapter 22:  
>  **Altschmerz**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	22. Altschmerz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Altschmerz**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is a content warning, as requested: this chapter contains explicit sexual content**  
> (Finally, amiright?)

When Castiel blinks himself awake the next morning, it takes him a few minutes to remember the events of the previous night. Slowly, the images come back to him: Dean on the couch beside him, holding his gaze, slowly leaning in; the responding heat in Castiel’s own chest. After everything they’ve been through, after _years_ of this, the two of them might finally have a chance.

Castiel’s return had been better than he could have ever hoped for, and for the first time, everything felt like it was how it ought to be. He was in the right place.

He feels the warmth again, but before he can truly enjoy it, he remembers pulling away – the words that inexplicably fell out of his mouth, just as everything seemed perfect.

In an instant, uncertainty starts to creep up within him. How different is he now, really? What’s changed? His track record as a human so far has been less than exemplary. Castiel has made some strides, true, but when things got too difficult, he left – just like he always did before. If things with Dean don’t work out, what’s to stop him from taking off again? Even though Dean had promised to always take him back, the thought of causing him any more pain sends a jolt through Castiel’s stomach, once more twisted up in a knot.

Slowly, he gets out of bed and starts down the hall, heading for the kitchen and trying to work out how to put a stop to all of this, before Dean gets hurt again.

Sam and Dean are both in the kitchen already; Sam’s at the table with his laptop and a cup of coffee, and Dean’s hovering over the stove, clad in his bathrobe and poking at some bacon with a fork.

“Mornin,’ Cas,” Sam says absently.

“Yeah hey, mornin,’” Dean says. He’s a little breathless, but his eyes are bright and the smile he throws Castiel’s way is full of anticipation. It makes Castiel’s heart seize.

He tries to keep his tone even. “Hello. Is there coffee?”

Dean’s expression falters. “Yeah, help yourself.”

Stomach sinking, Castiel moves past him and over to the coffeemaker. He can feel Dean’s eyes on the back of his head.

“What are you doing, Sam? Are you looking for a case?” Castiel asks, deciding it’s probably best to move past the moment as quickly as possible.

Sam looks up at him for a moment, brow furrowed, then throws an uncertain look Dean’s way. “Not really, just. . . poking around a bit, I guess. I didn’t think you wanted to get back out there yet.”

“Maybe not just yet,” Castiel says, and for this at least, he isn’t lying. “But soon. I think I’m ready. And it’ll be good to get back to normal.” He looks back over at Dean, squaring his shoulders.

Dean’s face is rather blank. “Yeah, sounds good,” he says, voice tight. “Anyway, here – bacon’s ready.” He switches off the burner then heads out the side door without another word.

Castiel watches him go, his own stomach sinking further with every retreating footstep. Perhaps he’s made a mistake again.

“What the hell are you doing, Cas?”

Surprised, Castiel looks down to find Sam staring at him. “What?”

Sam shakes his head, his expression turned cold. “Look, I obviously don’t know everything that’s going on with you two, but you’ve gotta stop this.”

“I’m just –”

“Yeah, I know. I know what you think you’re doing,” Sam says dismissively.

Instantly, Castiel’s shoulders slump. “I don’t want to hurt him again,” he says quietly.

“Yeah well, what do you think you just did?” Sam stands from the table and folds up his laptop. “What do you think you did when you left? _Every time_ you left, man? You can’t keep doing this to him, you’re killing him.” He starts to leave too.

“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” Castiel says helplessly.

Sam pauses at the door. “Figure it out. Don’t be an idiot.”

Castiel stays rooted in place for a long time, his mind kind of frozen. As if from the outside, he watches himself, replays the last few minutes of his life.

His stomach has stopped sinking, instead it simply disappears, leaving a gaping chasm in its wake.

So much for change. So much for things being right, for feeling like everything has fallen into place. One moment of insecurity and Castiel slides right back to how he always was – lost, unsure, so absorbed in his own sense of right and wrong he closes off to everything and every _one_ around him.

This isn’t who he wants to be anymore.

And he won’t let the opportunity to change slip by him again.

Humanity is all about choice, Castiel thinks, as he heads off down the hall. It always has been, and he’s known that since the beginning. That’s been the one thing they’ve clung to, all of them, every step of the way. Free will.

Enough’s enough, now. Castiel will no longer let himself be ruled, be held back by all his fears and doubts. Humanity means choosing for yourself – and Castiel will _choose_ to move forward, to let go. He will choose to be with the man he loves. And damn the rest.

He flings Dean’s door open without bothering to knock, but the room is empty. Undeterred, Castiel keeps walking down the hall, intending to check the gym next. He’s almost reached it when he hears the shower running.

The hinges of the shower room door creak when Castiel pushes it open, but he keeps moving forward into the room.

“ _Occupado_ ,” Dean growls from behind the curtain.

Castiel ignores him, ignores everything, and pulls it aside.

“Cas, what the _hell_?” Dean says, making a hasty attempt to cover himself.

Without pausing to remove his clothes, without stopping at all, Castiel surges forward, crowds Dean up against the wall, and crashes their lips together.

At first, Dean doesn’t respond at all, but Castiel is unrelenting, kissing him hard and fierce until Dean moans, _melts_ against the cool tile wall. His hands come up and fist in the already soaking sleeves of Castiel’s t-shirt, pulling him in closer.

Warm water pounds against Castiel’s head and shoulders, but Dean is warmer still, his skin soft and firm beneath Castiel’s fingers. They trail through rivulets running down his chest, and Dean shivers.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas. _Finally_ ,” he murmurs, before leaning forward and capturing Castiel’s mouth again.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers back, pulling away enough to drag his lips through the water beading on Dean’s neck. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Shaking his head, Dean starts yanking at the sopping wet shirt. “The hell you thinkin’ with this,” he mumbles, pulling the stretchy fabric up over Castiel’s head. “Dumbass.”

Castiel grins, but Dean ignores him, his eyes roving Castiel’s now bare chest. His eyes go dark and hungry, and he grips Castiel’s arms again and spins them, forcing Castiel’s back against the wall instead.

It forces a grunt out of Castiel’s chest, which turns into a moan as Dean presses tight against him and slips a thigh between his legs, still clad in sweatpants.

“ _Dumbass_ ,” Dean repeats, now attempting to push them off too. “Get rid of these.”

Castiel huffs a laugh, then together they pull the sodden pants all the way off. Once they’re kicked across the floor, Castiel reaches out and threads his fingers through Dean’s hair, reeling him back in.

Their lips meet again, and again, turning desperate and feverish. Dean grinds his hips forward and Castiel lets out a gasp as their cocks drag against one another. Dean moans, then sinks his teeth into Castiel’s lower lip. 

“ _Fuck_ , I’ve been waiting to hear that sound,” Dean says, rolling his hips forward again.

Swallowing, Castiel moves them again, forcing Dean backwards to the other wall. He reaches down for Dean’s thigh and hauls it up over his own hip, then grinds forward, _hard_. Dean whimpers.

“Me too,” Castiel whispers, then pulls their mouths together again with a hand on Dean’s jaw.

He feels Dean smirk against his lips, then a moment later there’s a hand on his cock, and all logical thought vanishes from Castiel’s mind.

It all happens very quickly from there. Dean grinds himself against Castiel’s hip bone, moaning and cursing into his ear, and all the while he strokes Castiel’s cock, hard and fast until they’re both spilling, come painting each other’s stomachs.

Still panting, shaking, Castiel pulls back and finds Dean’s eyes. At first they simply stare at one another, and Castiel is overwhelmed. The way Dean is looking at him, so full of passion, so _naked_ – it’s more than he can bear.

Castiel closes his eyes against it, but leans in, resting their foreheads together.

Fortunately, Dean seems to understand. He lets out a long sigh and runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair. They stay like that, pressed close beneath the stream of water, and Castiel feels the last traces of doubt wash away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody rocks. Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Part 23:  
>  **Nodus Tollens**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore_
> 
> This is [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	23. Nodus Tollens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Nodus Tollens**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the realization that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore_

It occurs to Castiel, sometime that afternoon and between bouts of rather _athletic_ sex, that he has no idea how he ever ended up here.

Looking back on the last few months of his life, it seems impossible that he would find himself in this position: happy – content, even – and in Dean Winchester’s bed.

It gets even more absurd when he thinks of himself a year ago. Then ten years. A laugh bubbles its way out of his chest before he can stop it.

“Hey. Just so you know, it’s not polite to laugh at a guy with your head between his legs.”

Castiel looks up from where he’d been idly sucking a bruise to Dean’s thigh.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Not really an ego boost.”

“Sorry,” Castiel says. “I was just thinking.”

“Well, let’s put a stop to that,” Dean says. He reaches down with both hands and starts pulling Castiel up by his head, leaning up himself and drawing their mouths together.

Castiel lets himself be distracted for a long moment, kissing Dean deep and thorough. Eventually Dean breaks away and falls back against the pillows, and Castiel follows, dropping his head down and tracing a hand over Dean’s chest.

“So, what were you thinking about?” Dean asks.

“I forget,” Castiel says, eyes slipping closed.

Dean gives him a playful little push. “C’mon.”

Opening his eyes again, Castiel offers a wry smile. “I was just thinking. . . how did we get here?”

“Well,” Dean says, “if I remember things right, you attacked me in the shower. I was defenseless.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You were like an animal,” Dean adds. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

In retaliation, Castiel delivers a sharp pinch to Dean’s chest, eliciting a satisfying yelp.

“ _Hey_.”

Taking pity on him, Castiel leans down and soothes the mark with a soft kiss. “I mean _here_. Did you ever think we’d make it here?”

The teasing smile drops from Dean’s face. “Well. . . it was definitely touch-and-go there for a while.”

Castiel nods. “I’m sorry.” He’s said the words a lot the past few days, but he knows it’ll never be enough.

“I know, Cas.” Dean reaches across and runs his hand up Castiel’s arm. “Me too. We both. . . kinda suck at this.”

Castiel chuckles wryly. “At what, apologizing?”

Dean finds his eyes. “At being human.”

That stirs something deep within Castiel’s chest. “I suppose we’re. . . works in progress, then.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Makin’ it up as we go, you might say.”

A wide grin splits Castiel’s face. “You might.”

Dean answers with a grin of his own, then leans over and starts kissing Castiel again, hard and hungry. The hand he’d been trailing along Castiel’s arm starts drifting lower.

Castiel inhales sharply against Dean’s lips when Dean fists a hand around his hardening cock. “I think we should talk about all this later,” Castiel says.

Smiling again, Dean leans down and starts pressing light kisses to Castiel’s neck. “No no, keep talkin,’ I’m listening.”

“Um. . . that’s very distracting,” Castiel says, shifting a little on the bed.

“Hmm, is it?”

Castiel gasps as Dean drags a thumb across the head of his cock.

“You were sayin,’” Dean says, sliding further down Castiel’s chest. “You didn’t think we’d make it here.”

Now planted between Castiel’s splayed legs, Dean looks up and winks.

Castiel takes a breath. “Yes.”

Nodding sagely, Dean leans down and draws his tongue up the underside of Castiel’s cock. “And what else?”

Castiel closes his eyes, tries to concentrate. “I didn’t ever think this would be my life. I didn’t think – _ah_ – I didn’t think it was _supposed_ to be my life.”

“Mmhmm.” Dean hums with his lips wrapped around Castiel’s cock, and it almost sends Castiel careening off the bed, hips first. Dean pulls back, grinning. “And?”

“It’s just,” Castiel says, panting slightly, “all of this seems so. . . normal. But – in a good way.” He stops then, overwhelmed by the talented ministrations of Dean’s tongue.

Just as he relaxes into the pillows though, Dean stops, pulling off entirely. Castiel looks down at him, glaring.

“What?” Dean asks, his face as mask of faux innocence.

“You’re. . .” Castiel struggles to regain his breath. “You’re _teasing_.” He wriggles his hips, desperate for some kind of relief.

Dean shakes his head. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to listen to what you have to say.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Is this fun for you?”

“Dude, you have no idea.”

Despite his frustration, Castiel chuckles again. He pulls in another steadying breath. “Getting to have this –” he pauses on a moan, as Dean rewards him by leaning down over his cock again, “– getting to be ha – happy. I didn’t think that would happen.”

Dean offers a reassuring squeeze to his thigh.

“I still can’t – _mm_ – I can barely believe it has.”

He stops then, and so does Dean, leaning up and pulling off again. Castiel lets out a whine.

“It has, though.” Dean grins.

“Yes, it has,” Castiel says, impatient. “Now _please_ , Dean.”

Mercifully, Dean takes pity on him. With one final grin, he dips his head again and works his tongue until Castiel spills into his mouth.

After, when Castiel has licked the last traces of come from Dean’s lips, they lie facing one another in the bed, legs tangled.

“Part of me thinks this is someone else’s story,” Castiel says quietly, “that I was. . . I was just lucky enough to walk into.”

Dean leans up on one elbow and kisses him softly. “No, Cas. It’s yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, there's only one more chapter to go and I'm getting emotional.
> 
>  **Énoument**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things work out, and being unable to tell your past self_
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


	24. Énoument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Énoument**  
>  noun  
>  _1\. the bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things work out, and being unable to tell your past self_

The ghost takes a little longer to handle than they were expecting, so it’s after two in the morning when they finally start heading back to Bloomington.

“Why the hell can’t people be buried where they’re _supposed_ to be buried,” Dean grumbles, wiping a smudge of mud off the side of his face.

In the back seat, Castiel rolls his neck, trying to work away a slight kink. “Well, he was, technically. He was just moved later.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the rearview mirror. “Yeah, but that’s the kinda shit people are supposed to _write down_. ‘Hey, just a head’s up, we’re moving old man Vandenburg to a different boneyard.’ All I ask.”

“That’d make our job too easy,” Sam says tiredly, leaning back in his seat and propping his elbow on the passenger door. “Wake me when we get back.”

“At least it was only forty-five minutes away,” Castiel says absently. Still rolling his neck, he catches sight of an approaching road sign. Something flutters in his abdomen, and he quickly looks back to the front seat, but it doesn’t seem as though Dean noticed.

They drive the rest of the way back in silence. Dean shoves lightly at Sam’s shoulder as they pull into the motel’s parking lot.

“Night, guys,” Sam says around a yawn, shuffling towards his room. “I’ll get breakfast in the morning, just make sure you’ve both got pants on this time.”

“No promises,” Dean says, herding Castiel inside their room.

Castiel shakes his head. “Goodnight, Sam.”

They step through the doorway, and almost immediately Dean’s hand is at the back of his neck, rubbing in small circles. “You okay?”

Castiel closes his eyes at the sensation. “It’s fine, I’ll just take a couple aspirin.”

“‘Kay,” Dean says. “I’m gonna take a shower. You comin’?” he asks, throwing Castiel a lascivious wink.

“I’m alright, you go ahead,” Castiel says.

Dean shrugs, then leans in. “Alright. But don’t go anywhere.” He plants a lush and lingering kiss on Castiel’s lips, and despite the tension in his stomach, Castiel grins into it.

Dean disappears into the bathroom a moment later, and Castiel moves to the sink, washing the last remnants of mud and dried sweat from his face. After taking a few pills for his neck, he sits on the bed to think.

By the time Castiel hears the shower turn off, he’s made his decision.

The bathroom door opens and Dean emerges, clad only in a towel slung low on his hips. He catches sight of Castiel, standing by the door, and frowns. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes, and you are too. Get dressed,” Castiel says.

Dean pouts at him. “Whaddyou mean? We just got here.”

“I know,” Castiel says, trying hard not to be swayed – or distracted – by the tantalising picture Dean presents. “But there’s somewhere I want to go. It’s important.”

Dean looks rather unimpressed. 

“Please, Dean.”

That does the trick. Rolling his eyes, Dean grabs his duffel from the floor and starts rooting through it. “Alright. But this here?” He drops the towel from his waist, giving Castiel a delightful view of what he’ll evidently be missing tonight “This is payback.”

After slipping a note beneath Sam’s door, they pull out from the motel again, heading north. When the turn comes, Castiel directs him over to I-55. The fluttering in his stomach only gets stronger.

After twenty minutes, they approach another sign on the side of the road. Castiel watches as realization dawns on Dean’s face.

“Really?” he says quietly, turning to the passenger seat.

Castiel nods. “I think it’s just up here.”

“I remember,” Dean says. “You okay?”

Castiel nods again. “Yes.”

Another few minutes and Dean spots the turn: an old country road five miles south of Pontiac, Illinois.

The barn hasn’t been torn down, fortunately, despite its state of disrepair. Dean lets him go first; Castiel pushes aside the splintered wooden doors and steps over the threshold, taking in the dozens of spray-painted symbols that still cover the walls and floor. In fact, besides the thick coating of dust, it all looks exactly as it had almost ten years ago.

Castiel trails a hand along one wall, then walks over to the wooden workbench. His fingers trace over the sigils still carved there; this one looks like Bobby’s work, rather than Dean’s. Smiling, Castiel then moves over to the centre of the room and looks back towards the door.

Dean is standing just inside, watching him.

“Do you ever wish you could go back?” Castiel asks.

“What, to here?” Dean says, moving into the room. “This moment?”

Castiel shrugs. “Or any moment.”

Dean takes a few seconds to answer, neck craned up to the ceiling. His feet crunch on the glass of shattered light bulbs. “Yeah, sure. All the time.”

“What would you do?”

Tipping his head back down, Dean shrugs as well. “Exactly what you’d expect. There’s a lot of people I didn’t save. A lot of mistakes I made.”

“But all those things, all those mistakes,” Castiel says, “they led you here.”

Dean considers him a moment, then smiles. “True.”

Castiel looks back towards the door. “I wish I could tell him.”

“Tell who?” Dean says.

“The Castiel I was, the one who broke through that door,” Castiel says. “I wish I could tell him what was coming, where he’s going to be in ten years.”

“Maybe warn him too, that the devastatingly attractive hunter he just yanked out of Hell is about to stab him.”

“You shot me too,” Castiel adds mildly.

“Yeah well, you were kind of a dick back then.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “True.”

“He wouldn’t believe you,” Dean says softly. Castiel turns to look at him, and Dean inclines his head towards the doors. “Old you. You told that Cas what was comin,’ he’d never believe you.”

“No, I doubt it,” Castiel says. “Maybe I wouldn’t tell him everything, then.”

Dean nods. “Just the highlight reel.”

“I’d tell him that in the end, it’ll all work out. It’ll be okay,” Castiel says. He looks back and finds Dean’s eyes. “It’ll be hard, but in the end, he’ll be happy.”

The grin that splits Dean’s face is almost blinding. “I knew you’d figure all this out, Cas. I knew you’d get through it.”

Castiel looks back at the open door. He can just see the faint light of dawn glowing on the horizon. “Well, I haven’t yet,” he says. “With any luck, there’s a lot more in front of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over!! I'm so sad!!  
> But also quite pleased and proud I finally managed to get this story out there.  
> For the final time, my sincere and unending thanks to everyone reading along, commenting, and leaving kudos. It means the world to me.
> 
> I would love to be friends, please don't hesitate to say hi on [my tumblr](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).
> 
> <3


End file.
